Release Of Terror
by metamorphstorm
Summary: *Sequel to 'Accusations'* Ten years after Claudia Kishi's move to Chicago, she, Bobbi, and Ashley are struggling to make the most of life. But with Dahlia's release from jail pending, will the stability each has taken comfort in evaporate?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**** It has barely been two months since "Accusations" was completed, and here I am, hoping to start the sequel. I can't help it; somehow, the BSC ended up becoming interesting again as I wrote the fic. I don't know how…I guess I liked it more after I killed off some of the girls. I **_**do**_** know this sounds morbid, believe me. I just hated some of those girls! My apologies to all true BSC fans, including all of the reviewers and readers 'Accusations' garnered. Which reminds me…if you plan to read this, **_**read ACCUSATIONS first or this may not ever make any sense to you!**_** But it's very long, as this should be, so there are no worries if you skim or skip it altogether. And NO, this will be about one of the only long Author's Notes I write. Oh, and let me know (**_**please?**_**) if the characters are too OOC. I've never written a story with adult characters. :D**

**Chapter 1**

Think of a city and you probably imagine skyscrapers, traffic, noise, and seedy hotels, drunks passed out in the few-and-far-between places of greenery, and young women in short skirts standing on the street corners. If not, maybe you can imagine mingling cultures; glittery stores open all night; and all kinds of personalities. For a fourteen-year-old girl who had grown up in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, which is a small town with an even smaller number of people who knew words like 'prostitute' and 'marijuana,' Chicago was a pretty big shock.

I'd lived as New York's neighbor for the first fourteen years of my life, so while we weren't completely oblivious to crime and the other things most of us don't like to think about, the city's glamour typically overshadowed any bad news that could come with city life. Childhood friends who adored the city were proof of that.

Chicago wasn't New York. But it wasn't bad. For one thing, leaving Connecticut meant leaving a vast array of memories and problems behind. I hadn't many friends left there, so leaving at the age of fourteen wasn't as painful as it would have been at thirteen years old. It also meant a fresh start—new friends, new teachers, a new home, and new memories.

Almost. Much had changed, but several things hadn't. Several ties hadn't been severed. Such as my friendship with Bobbi Battista, who I met when I was, as the last member of the Baby-Sitters Club (BSC) was going to be watching a three-year-old, Bobbi's little sister, Kerry. I'm not sure how a friendship blossomed out of the chaos that was my fourteenth year of life, but I'm very happy that it did.

It was why I was walking alongside a huge house, admiring the flowery bushes and colorful Japanese Cherry trees lining the stone path. Bobbi's wealth had never decreased and she didn't hesitate to spend. She was cautious, but not frugal. I could hear the sounds of a typical, warm, late Spring day as I neared the bushes and gate that led to the Battista backyard.

I could see, hear, and smell all of the things one might as they spend five minutes in the sun on an average sunny day. Hot dogs and hamburgers on someone's barbecue. Dogs barking. Children laughing and shrieking. Water splashing, both from sprinklers and pools. Music as a man down the street washed a very expensive car. And, the one thing I wanted to hear: Bobbi's voice. Three years older than me, and still more fun than I ever was. At the age of twenty-seven, and a mother of two adorable twin girls who are now six years old, she was still just as responsible and fun as she was at seventeen, when I first met her.

A lot can happen in ten years. Bobbi's mother died six years ago, when I was eighteen (and Bobbi was twenty-one) and left Bobbi, who was already mothering Kerry, with everything they owned. Money, cars, a new house. Two years later, Bobbi married her boyfriend, Michael and gave birth all in one year. I don't see much of Michael, who works abroad most of the time as some kind of scientist/politician, and Bobbi's daughters spend a lot of time with Kerry (who is now thirteen and their role model) so she and I have a lot of time to reminisce.

One of the things we talk about most frequently is something that came with us from the past and lives with me in the present. Ashley Wyeth had been living with my family and I for the last ten years or so, and a lot had happened to change the way things were when we first came to Chicago and even before, when we thought everything was going to be one way.

Like most people, I never really imagined I'd move out or grow up. But when Ashley couldn't stop fighting with my parents (and vice-verse, of course) she left. I think Mom and Dad were so harsh with Ashley after what happened with Janine—who announced that she was pregnant and left when I was seventeen with her husband (who we didn't know about until she mentioned him as she stormed out) and hadn't been heard from again. That left me with my aging parents. Both were disappointed with Chicago—my mother's job at the library didn't pay as well as it had in Stoneybrook even though there were probably ten thousand more books, and my father's job had ended when he and a colleague got into an argument in front of the customers and my father had never been able to redeem himself, so he was stuck taking on jobs of less interest to him.

Eventually, when my parents' angst started depressing me and I couldn't do anything to please them (I tried) I moved in with Ashley, whose former roommate wasn't good with paying the rent. I got a job (at a bookstore, which would have surprised anyone who knew me as a kid) and went to college. Now I live across town from Bobbi, who lives in the nice, luxurious, and relatively safe side of Chicago. I live on the much less luxurious and safe side, in Ashley's apartment (which I say even though I pay an equal share for it.)

Despite everything that has happened, Bobbi and I remained close. She still looks much like she did at seventeen (despite having had twins!) and although her hair was recently styled, she still looks pretty much the same, but she doesn't wear the same black, gray or white single-color tank tops, cargo pants, and sneakers anymore.

One of the things we talk about most is my relationship with Ashley. Despite living together for almost seven years, (yes, we only lasted three years as a family in Chicago! I guess the move was a little more traumatic than we'd expected) we still had issues. Ashley was a newcomer to vegetarianism, and I was still as much a junk food addict as ever, with a few more pounds than I'd had at thirteen or fourteen. She wasn't a neat freak, but I certainly wasn't, either. She was constantly picking on me about 'eating right' and 'being neat' and even 'reading good literature.' She was starting to sound like a mother. More specifically, _my_ mother.

"Claudia!" Kerry was on her feet in a flash, abandoning her magazine on her lawn chair and streaking across the yard in her one-piece bathing suit as I peered around the hedges. It was hard to believe she was the same age I'd been when I got into most of the adventures I had. One of the most influential adventures I ever had happened when I was fourteen and led to my move to Chicago (and I was still sometimes surprised that my parents were still together) but that was beside the point. I'd gotten into plenty of trouble at thirteen, and now Kerry was the same age.

She wrapped me in a hug and let go just as her little cousins, Elizabeth and Jennifer, pounced on me. Bobbi, carrying a tray of icy lemonade out of the house and stepping onto the stone terrace and over the flowery border, looked over at us to see why her daughters and sister were tackling someone at the edge of the yard. Seeing me, she flashed a smile.

"Claudia! I didn't expect you so early," she said, stepping into the lush green grass and heading towards me. She was barefoot and wearing a black bikini. The twins were also dressed in their bathing suits (metallic pink) and were hopping over the sprinkler again, my arrival forgotten.

"I had to get away from Ashley," I confessed. "She's insane."

Kerry took a lemonade from Bobbi's tray and hurried off, evidently aware that we were about to have one of our 'talks.'

"Insane, or just bothering you?" Bobbi held out her tray, and I took one of the glasses. She took one for herself and set the tray (which held two smaller cups of soda) on the table beside the lawn chairs. She and I each settled ourselves onto them.

Kerry was back reading her magazine at this point, alternating between sipping and flipping pages. The twins had split up, Elizabeth remaining in the sprinkler spray with her drink, sitting in the grass, and Jennifer taking her Coke to the edge of the pool so she could dangle her feet in the water. The Battista backyard is very picturesque; flowers line the tall, fancy wrought-iron fence and terrace, and high hedges line the house itself. A little pond with a waterfall (which both glow gold at night) and statues sit around the yard. And then, of course, there is the pool and hot tub. And the barbecue.

"Both," I answered, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin. Wearing shorts and a T-shirt over my bathing suit, I crossed my legs and kicked off my sandals.

"In what way? Did she ask your boyfriend out again?"

I scowled. "No, and she'd better not try. She waited up for me last night, and said it wasn't very responsible of me to stay out until midnight. On a _Saturday_."

"Have you told her she's bugging you?" Bobbi fixed her bright, blue-green eyes on me. "Have you considered the possibility that she might be jealous about Mallory?"

I guess I should explain here that Mallory Pike, who we (our other friends and I) lost touch with after she went to boarding school, recently sent me an e-mail and wanted to meet up.

"Why would she be? Ashley and I only knew each other for a few weeks when we were thirteen, and Mallory and I haven't spoken in nine years. And six months."

"But you've now known Ashley longer than you knew Mallory," Bobbi pointed out, "and maybe Ashley's afraid that since you and Mal went through so much together, you'll feel closer to her than you do to Ashley now."

"Maybe. But it's still going to be weird to see her again."

"So you've decided to meet her?"

"Yeah…I mean, I think so. I don't know. The BSC meant so much to me for so long." Having explained the BSC to Bobbi, and about most of the adventures we had, Bobbi nodded in understanding.

"Didn't you also say it could be a pain in the ass? You were glared at if you sat at a different table, and if you were a few seconds late, they all glared at you like you were some kind of traitor." Bobbi hesitated, with a little smile. "And from what I hear, some of your friends were a little bit too excitable. What kinds of teenagers willingly got up early just to run a playgroup when they could be hanging at the mall with kids their own age?"

Although Bobbi wouldn't have admitted it out loud, I knew she was constantly amused by my former friends. I knew she thought Mary Anne was a wimp; that Kristy was a bitch; and that Stacey had been a snob. I knew she thought Dawn wasn't a real individual, that Mallory was a bit of a nerd and a freak, and that Jessi was pretty cool. It was hard to admit that, she was kind of right. They were good people, but Mallory had always cared far too much about what people thought, to the point where it was kind of creepy. She was almost always examining people. Stacey had been a snob. There was no doubt about that. She considered New York to be the best place on the planet, and although several million people live there, seemed to consider it a claim to fame. And when she once fudged (literally) on her diet and wound up in the hospital, she was all 'Poor me, why can't things ever go right?' Kristy had considered 'being bossy' to mean 'a born leader.' And when you look at it in the sense that bossy boys are 'strong-willed' and so on, but girls are 'hard-headed,' she was right. However, at the age of thirteen, we should each have been far more relaxed than we were. Instead of enjoying sunny days, we had to rush to be at every meeting on time or early, and if we sat with anyone other than BSC members at lunch, we were practically shot on the spot. Dawn was considered an 'individual' but never actually did anything that was really extraordinary. So she ate vegetarian food and avoided sweets and liked the environment. So? People never called _me_ an individual, even though I, despite criticism, stuck to my junk food. And we all cared about the environment, but because Dawn was willing to spew facts and insults simultaneously to anyone who ate what they wanted to (like calling hamburgers 'fried cow carcasses' in public) she was an 'individual.' Not. And Mary Anne was a wimp. That was just how it was. She could cry at dog food commercials. She'd twitch and spasm if you mentioned books in which a character died. And she even confessed once that the fairy tales (_Disney_ fairy tales!) were too _scary _for her!

I knew Bobbi hadn't ever seemed to have a problem with Jessi, at least how I described her. I guess most people saw Jessi as being black, which was enough of a character flaw for them. She wasn't shy or bossy or snobby or nerdy. She didn't dress like a lunatic (that would be me; how had I ever mixed red and purple and electric lime green together? I must have been insane!) or have an insanely big family full of divorce, remarriage, disease, and pets.

And, come to think of it, we weren't that diverse a group. Nobody was poor or unpopular or even that different. And even as teens we liked to consider ourselves insightful. How had we not seen that we were just a clique like any other, except that we had 'rules' and 'jobs' and 'earned money?'

"All of us," I muttered, in response to Bobbi's question. "I was just thinking about how 'different' we supposedly all were. We weren't ever _that_ different."

"How so? I thought you seemed like a pretty mixed-up group."

I was about to answer when she called, "Elizabeth, don't run on the grass, please! It's wet and slippery!"

"Well, we had enough money and luck to always go on vacations. Disneyland, a cruise, cross-country in _two_ RVs. And every single time, _all_ of our parents agreed to let us go. Even Jessi and Mallory, and they were _eleven_. You wouldn't let Jen or Liz or Kerry go out on things like that without you, would you?"

"Ten or fifteen years ago, I'd probably have said 'Yes,' just because I knew my mother wouldn't. But I know now what it's like to feel so protective. There's no chance they'd ever go out sailing without an adult, or across the country with so many teenagers and the fathers. That wouldn't be smart even if I'd known everyone forever."

I was silent for a moment. "You know…sometimes, my whole childhood seems fake. I know we had problems, but it was mostly smooth sailing the whole time. Winning a lottery—and, hello, _nobody_ scolded us teenagers from gambling? Going across the country and into other countries and on various trips away from home for weeks at a time, all in one year? Were our parents insane?"

"Okay, so you weren't all that diverse. You all had money and luck. But they were good friends. Weren't they? That must count for something."

"When Kristy and Dawn weren't fighting over Mary Anne, and Stacey wasn't annoying everyone with her always-sophisticated attitude, yes. When Dawn wasn't crusading for something, yes, and when Abby wasn't butting heads with Kristy, yes—"

"Wait, who's Abby?" Bobbi asked. "I don't think you've mentioned her."

"I _didn't_? Wow. Well, she was a Jewish girl who joined the club. An athletic, opinionated asthmatic. She and Kristy, each being leader-like and used to being the one in command, often struggled for control over who did what and how it was done."

It was getting easier to remember things without a flood of painful memories and nostalgic grief bubbling up. It was getting easier to think of Stacey again, too, especially seeing that I could now freely admit she'd been a bit of a snob when, ten years earlier, I couldn't think of her or hear the name 'Stacey' without crying.

"Mom, can we go watch TV? I think _Finding Nemo_ was listed for this afternoon."

"Okay," Bobbi agreed. "Hey, Kerry! Come on in and get some sunscreen!"

I followed Bobbi inside. The twins had already settled themselves down in front of the TV with the remote and were flipping through the channels. Kerry followed us to the kitchen, carrying three cups. Bobbi held the tray she'd held the glasses on, and we each held our own cups. Bobbi gestured to the sink, and Kerry and I deposited ours with Bobbi's.

"Don't you think Mallory just wants to reminisce?" Bobbi asked. "It can't hurt to go see her. She's probably wondering why you live in Chicago. I wonder how she found you."

"Her e-mail didn't explain," I said, with a shrug.

"Hey, Bobbi! Come look at this!"

Probably fearing for the clean white carpet, Bobbi hurried into the living room. I followed, seeing as it was the only way I'd get to talk to Bobbi. She never stayed in one place for long.

"'_And in local news, Dahlia Battista, convicted as a teenager for terroristic crimes in Connecticut, will be having a final parole hearing before a civilian jury this Friday. It's to be the final hearing before she's released from custody and integrated into the system that will allow her to be reintroduced to society. More details on the hour_.'"

* * *

**- Author's Note 2: I hope this chapter didn't bore you all to death. -**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

We sat in a stunned silence for what felt like forever. If Bobbi's expression mirrored my own, I looked as dazed as I felt.

'Terroristic crimes' seemed like an understatement. Dahlia had, with help, caged and tortured hundreds of people. I had been one of them. Ashley had been one of them. Prisoners were released into the community daily, but this time was different. Ten years had passed. Dahlia would come into a world where her mother was dead; her sister was a stranger, a mother, and nervous about her; and Kerry was a teenager.

"Ten years," Bobbi mused. "Ten years, for everything she did. How can she be released? She was supposed to be in there for the rest of her life."

"It's probably because she was a teenager," I answered vaguely. "Adults never think teenagers understand what they're doing, so they probably assume that whatever made Dahlia do the things she did is a thing of the past."

"I've got a bad feeling about this. If I'm one of the few relatives Dahlia has left, the courts will want me to take her in. I've got two children. There's no chance of it."

"I'm certainly not going to offer to take her in," I hastily added. "Ashley and I, no offense, hate her guts."

"It's sad, but I don't blame you," Bobbi replied. She and I stared into the plate of cookies on the polished mahogany table between us. Almost everything in the Battista household was made of mahogany, and what wasn't fancy wasn't there. It was one of those places where you didn't want to touch anything at all for fear of leaving a fingerprint until you met Bobbi, when you could relax because she would want you to.

"I was finally starting to relax." I looked around, making sure the heavy mahogany doors were closed. Through the windows, I could see Bobbi's daughters chasing each other through the hall, with Kerry in the lead, holding up something that probably wasn't hers. "I just stopped double-checking every door and window."

In silence again, I leaned back. If this had been an otherwise typical Saturday in Stoneybrook, my friends would have all gathered around me and Kristy would have called an emergency meeting—which was something she did even when there wasn't an actual emergency. Like the time Mary Anne's kitten, Tigger, was lost. And he wouldn't have been if Mary Anne hadn't left him outside for half an hour. But a real emergency meeting should be for when a kid we're going to have to watch after for a week has a fear of choking and refuses to eat anything. Or when someone's psychotic sister is after them and everyone she knows.

"Maybe I should tell Mallory to stay in Stoneybrook," I said aloud, unaware that I'd spoken until Bobbi cocked her head at me, waiting for an explanation.

"Well, if Dahlia is going to be out of prison, who can say if she's going to be looking for revenge? You and I will probably be at the top of the list."

"My mother sure would have put me at the top of that list. She hated me for everything that happened. Dahlia was her pride, and when her delicate name was associated with terror and hatred and agony and all of the other unpleasantness that came with what she did, I was the reason. She didn't hate you," Bobbi added. "She just…well, her only daughters were being accused of horrible things. I guess any good mother would be upset."

"Mine would be. But…if you don't mind me asking…what did you mean by Dahlia being your mother's pride?"

"Think of the name 'Dahlia,'" Bobbi suggested. "You probably picture the flower. I used to," she added. (I didn't even know what a dahlia looked like.) "Like all flowers, they have centers that are hidden when the petals close, and like all flowers, they look delicate either way. Dahlia was Mom's pride because, like her name, Dahlia was delicate and kept some of her own secrets. She didn't always just open up. Mom liked that, which figures. Comparing a daughter to a flower just because she's a girl is so old-fashioned I don't even want to think about it. But unlike a flower, nothing about Dahlia—her appearance, her core—was beautiful. She was as dead as she wanted everything else to be."

"That could all sound either very perverted or very poetic."

Bobbi rolled her eyes. "And I thought ten years would mature you. You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do," I said, and sighed slightly. "Dahlia looked about as delicate as a dead garden."

"Exactly. Gardens never look delicate when the leaves are all wilted and the leaves are gone. They just look sharp and spiky and tangled. Which is how I imagine Dahlia still is. Ten years in jail might change some people, but Dahlia was resilient to change to begin with. I don't think ten years of torture could change Dahlia."

The doorbell rang then, and Bobbi excused herself. I leaned back and stared at the ceiling, which looked like it was miles above me.

_I wonder if Ashley has seen the News yet…and if not, I'm going to hate what I have to tell her when she gets home._

. . . .

"What kinds of locks are we looking for?"

Just as I'd expected, Ashley was instantly on guard. Even though we were in a public place, looking at various door and window locks (in addition to what our apartment already had, and in addition to the doormen and locks in our cart) she was looking over her shoulder every thirty seconds or so to make sure Dahlia wasn't sneaking up on us with some kind of weapon.

"All kinds," was Ashley's muffled reply. She was bent over, looking at sticks for the window tracks. "Do you think we need these?"

"We live on the ninth floor. Any idiot who'd climb nine floors up to our windows—or nine floors down from the roof—will probably need both hands to hang onto the building."

"Just in case."

We paid for the locks and sticks, and ran to the car. The rain had started pouring as I left Bobbi's, and I'd been soaked by the time I made it to the bus stop. (I was dry by the time the bus came, however, because a bus had crashed. Comforting, isn't it?) Now, mixed with hail and wind, the rain seemed even less forgiving.

Ashley turned on the heater and we sat there for a moment, while the car warmed up.

"Do you think Dahlia remembers us?"

I felt my face tighten, but I allowed myself a moment to breathe before I answered. "Yes."

"She will?"

"How could she not? She hated us enough to bother caging and torturing us, didn't she? And now we're free while she's spent the last decade behind thick steel bars, probably getting a taste of her own medicine every single day. Wouldn't you want revenge, or to apologize? Or anything?" I felt bad about what I was saying. Memories were coming back, and it hurt. Not as bad as the torture itself, maybe (Ashley had been raped, after all) but even so…

Ashley was hunched over the steering wheel. Her eyes were closed, each breath labored.

"Why did we come to Chicago? To get away from all of the memories," Ashley answered herself immediately. "And why did Bobbi's mother move the family here? To be closer to Dahlia. Now, this doesn't make a lot of sense to me. If I were your mother, I wouldn't want to move my daughter, who the psychotic freak hates and tried to kill, anywhere near the place where the terrorist was held. And why are we still here?"

"Because we can't run forever, and we thought Dahlia would be wearing a bright orange jumpsuit for the rest of her life."

Ashley's shoulders shook slightly. Whether she was laughing or crying, or both, I couldn't tell.

At home, Ashley slumped into the kitchen with all the enthusiasm of someone going to the dentist. She looked exhausted, although it was barely three P.M. and I knew she'd slept at least ten hours the night before. (She never used to, but sometimes, she snores.)

The phone rang. When Ashley didn't answer (the phone was in the kitchen) I headed in, still trying to take off my rain-soaked windbreaker. Ashley's retreating figure was headed for her room.

"Hello?" I asked, shrugging my coat off and hopping as I pulled off one of my boots. My coat slipped off and fell to the floor, but when I tried to catch it, I missed because one hand was still holding the phone, from which I heard no reply. I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear and reached down to pick my coat up.

"Ugh…"

"Hello?" I asked, having heard something. "Is someone there?" I was putting my coat on the rack and about to end the call when I heard it again.

"_Ugh_!"

This time, it sounded more like someone might when they've had the breath knocked out of them. Then, I heard a scratchy clicking sound.

"You're next."

Another click and the call was over. Ashley trudged back in and looked up, wearing gray sweatpants that were baggy and almost bell-bottomed around her bare feet and a matching gray bra top (the kind you wear when you do sports.) My expression must have indicated that something was wrong. And for once, it didn't occur to me to keep it a secret. I'd learned somewhere that 'it pays to be prepared.'

I explained the phone call. As expected, Ashley's face blanched and she looked sick.

"Could this be related to Dahlia?"

"Of course. But is it? Who knows? Maybe it was a wrong number, like it was from a gangster and meant for someone else."

Ashley just gave me a look, as though I was being incredibly stupid. I was.

It was most likely connected to Dahlia.

"We could call the police," I suggested, reluctantly remembering how many situations I'd been in where I should have called the police and didn't.

Ashley shrugged and nodded. "And say what? You got a creepy phone call? There's been millions of prank phone calls since the phone was invented."

"We haven't had any freaky calls since Dahlia's imprisonment, and now that she's about to be released, we have one. I'm not going to chance it."

"Okay. Good point," Ashley agreed.

I called the police and explained everything, but Ashley had been mostly right. There wasn't much the police could do about an anonymous creepy phone call. They told me to call back if we had any other strange happenings, and that was it.

Then, when Ashley had gone back to her room, I called Bobbi. I never liked talking to Bobbi with Ashley around, because they didn't like each other.

Bobbi listened carefully as I explained it all again, except that I knew she, unlike the police, was going to consider every angle of it before we hung up.

Between interruptions (apparently, the twins were making fudge on their own while Bobbi supervised) Bobbi and I spent half an hour on the phone.

"I guess the only real advice I can give is to keep your doors and windows locked, don't go out after midnight alone, never stay home alone, and let people know where you'll be, for how long, and when to expect you home. Other than that…"

"There's nothing we can do until something goes wrong?" I surmised.

"Pretty much."

"Okay. I'm going to go talk to Ashley. She'll want to know."

"Just one more thing, Claudia. If you get any other strange phone calls, or any odd notes or forms of secretive communication, let me know right away. I can't promise anything, but as Dahlia's twin, I might be able to figure out what she's up to. Someone's already got your number, but we don't know for sure that it's Dahlia. And I don't want to make any false allegations unless I've gotten some kind of concrete evidence."

"You sound like a detective. But yeah, I'll keep in touch—"

"Jennifer, no walnuts for the fish! Sorry, Claudia, got to go!"

_Click._

Ah. I almost missed baby-sitting. Making fudge (or cookies) had been something nearly all of the kids liked doing. And all the sitter had to do was make sure none of the kids used the fudge as a disguise for boogers (or feed walnuts to the goldfish) and she could take home a treat.

I talked to Ashley for a while, but she wasn't in a very talkative mood. She finally just went in for a shower and told me to check my e-mail. She didn't say why.

I saw why almost immediately. The message from Mallory was hidden between several from companies asking me to try out their products for a one-hundred percent discount. Scams.

I clicked on Mallory's message and sat back. It was a long one. It figured, since she'd loved writing and had even enjoyed writing up every monotonous detail of jobs we took.

_Hi, Claudia,  
Um, I haven't heard back from you yet, so I'm hoping this is the right e-mail address. I'm going to be in Stoneybrook next month, and I was really hoping to get together with you. Catch up, reminisce, find out what happened to everyone. I haven't managed to find Kristy or Abby, and for some reason, Jessi is completely avoiding answering me. Um…just so you know, this is Mallory Pike. Formerly a major dork with fuzzy red curls, glasses, braces, pale skin, freckles. Bony, skinny, short, and totally alone. I just wanted to meet up because I have to talk to you about something important._

That was it.

How could I reply? If nothing else, it'd be interesting to see how much she'd changed, or if she was still a 'fuzzy redheaded dork with big, manly glasses.'

I was still trying to think of something to say when Ashley left the bathroom and headed for the kitchen to start making supper. (Sometimes she does it, and sometimes I do, but we rarely work together. We make up for it by doing the dishes if the other cooked.)

_Dear Mallory,  
I guess you don't know this, but I don't live in Stoneybrook anymore. The last time I heard from anyone in Stoneybrook was ten years ago, as I left, and only Kristy remained. I guess I assumed you kept in touch with Jessi. I don't know where she's at. Since you left for boarding school, she threw herself into dancing and ended up moving away for it. Mary Anne, Dawn, Abby, and I moved away, as well. How have you been?_

I read over it. Not bad. It would save plenty of time if we met up, since now I wouldn't have to go into detail about any of it. I didn't know where Jessi was at, though I knew she'd gone to Stamford when she was twelve with her family to be closer to her advanced ballet academy and to her father's job. I knew Mary Anne and Dawn had left together, but whether they had remained together, I didn't know. Kristy had been a depressed tween the last time I'd seen her, and Mallory had been a fading memory. Logan and Shannon had never been close enough to us (with the exception of Logan to Mary Anne and Shannon to Kristy) to keep in contact. Abby had simply not told us she was leaving. One day she was late for a meeting, and when we called, we found that the phone had been disconnected. Their house was empty, a 'For Sale' sign stuck into the front lawn.

What my message was actually missing was real details about where I was, how I was doing, and basically everything she'd actually wanted to know.

_I now live in Chicago with Ashley Wyeth. I'm sure you saw everything leading up to this on the News about ten years back. We came to Chicago to escape our inadvertent fame, but we also wanted to escape Stoneybrook and all of the memories that came with it. In fact, the reason we left Stoneybrook is about to be released from prison, so if you still want to meet up with me, it's basically at your own risk._

Short and curt. And informative. And spelled much better than I would have done in middle school.

What else could I add?

_Looking forward to your response. Sincerely, Claudia._

There. Perfect.

Before I could change my mind, I clicked "Send" and sat back for a moment.

Maybe a visit with Mallory wouldn't be quite so bad. It was unlikely, but maybe it would even be fun. I hadn't spoken to anyone I knew at thirteen since I was fourteen, and even then, our conversations hadn't been pleasant. Emily Bernstein was someone I'd barely known until the BSC fell apart, and Kristy Thomas was someone I spent fifty percent of the time annoyed at. The other fifty percent was an equal blend of admiring Kristy, tolerance of Kristy, and complete anger at Kristy.

I'd once even started charging my friends because they were in my room three times a week (a grand total of ninety minutes) and eating my food. They contributed to the phone bill, sure, but seven dollars a week didn't go very far when the phone rang at least ten times on each of those thirty-minute pig-out sessions in my bedroom—which, I should add, they never helped to clean up even though there were more pretzel pieces and chip chunks on my floor (and in my bed) than I could dispense. I'd started charging for the food after Kristy decided my room needed a BSC theme, including tacking a chart over pictures of Stacey and I together on my bulletin board. Mallory and Jessi, as usual, had simply accepted it and handed over some money before they ate. Kristy had gotten as uptight as she possibly could without actually strangling herself with her sweaters and turtlenecks before realizing that _my_ space was MY space, not just the BSC headquarters and Kristy's 'Idea Machine' room.

Eew. No matter how sophisticated we thought ourselves, we were idiots. Taking care of twenty children when we didn't have to was idiotic.

I was just hoping my newfound plan to see Mallory again wasn't just as stupid an idea.

* * *

**Author's Note: Kind of a pointless chapter, I think. Man, I'm so worried this won't live up to the first fic! And for anyone who cares, I also thought Ann M Martin's overuse of italics and capitalization (like when Dawn spotted a 'Gorgeous Guy' and Kristy gave every half**-**second**-**late BSC member a 'Look' (why did the so-called "smart" members even stick with that kind of clique/club? I wouldn't have! Sorry again to BSC fans. I kept my sarcasm out of 'Accusations' and from here on out, if you decide to stick with me, I will do my best to avoid making fun of the BSC. Even though Claudia's older and would probably find fault in a lot of her childhood fun. :P**

**Please review! I really need feedback on this one. I am also sorry about the poetic stuff I threw around on Dahlia's name, and I don't know yet who it was being hurt on the other end of the phone call Dahlia got. Or if a Mallory reappearance is realistic.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**  
**Mallory**

It was hard to believe things could have changed so much.

Okay, so I wasn't a complete idiot. Ten years was a very long time, and I hadn't spoken to anyone but Jessi in that time, and even that had been years earlier.

But still, I'd clung to the belief that Stoneybrook was exactly as I'd left it. Kristy would still be sitting in one of Claudia's chairs, wearing a visor on her head and a pencil over one ear, and Mary Anne would still be clutching the record book and hiding behind her hair. Dawn would still be sitting right beside her, probably arguing with Kristy, and Jessi and I would still be sitting on the floor leaning against Claudia's bed.

My family had moved to Stamford in my absence to be closer to my father's place of work, which was where Jessi's family had moved, also in my absence, to be closer to _her_ father's place of work. Ironically, I'd imagined that we 'expendable' members, the 'junior' members with no real purpose for being in the club, had been the only ones to actually leave.

I'd gotten a letter about Stacey's death. A formal, emotionless letter explaining where and when it had happened. But I got the letter several days after the funeral.

Once you leave, you aren't needed. The triplets had taken over my 'job' as the oldest Pike sibling, and Margo, Nicky, Vanessa, and even Claire seemed to look up to them.

I knew this because I had come home, after seven years at Riverbend, to a place where I was no longer a real part of the family. At eighteen, the seventeen-year-old triplets were the ones the kids looked up to. Vanessa no longer spoke in rhyme, and Claire no longer sucked her thumb. Nicky wasn't a little dweeb anymore, and Margo had become 'more than just one of the middle siblings.'

Now, though, after three years at home, I'd gotten used to being the one people came to when nobody else bothered to help them. I was the last resort, whereas I used to be the first and only.

Aside from our parents, of course.

But it was why I'd become desperate to find someone who had known me when things were still perfect, when I was, much like Nicky, nothing more than a socially-inept kid. I'd tried Claudia's old e-mail address twice before I got a response, and when I did, I was thrilled.

Until I read it. Claudia's message wasn't particularly short, but it was _short._ I mean that while it was a fairly lengthy message, the words sounded short, like she was stating facts, not talking to someone she knew. Or had known, either way. But it just sounded so unlike Claudia that I was, at first, sure I'd sent the message to the wrong Claudia.

But she mentioned everyone we'd known, and it all came as a surprise.

The biggest surprise was that Claudia lived in Chicago.

I'd seen the News while at Riverbend. I hadn't understood it all, since most of the details couldn't be released because Claudia and Dahlia and most of the others involved were underage.

But I didn't think, ten years later, that it would have changed her so much.

Then again, her tormenter was about to be released into the community, free to do as she pleased. No wonder Claudia wasn't happy.

But could I really do what I was about to?

My boss wanted an extensive report about Claudia. Dahlia's release was going to be all over the News, and when my boss found out that I'd known Claudia, one of the main victims, he wanted me to question her.

But dredging up such memories wouldn't be pleasant. And I wasn't sure I could inflict that on a former friend, and one of the only ones I had.

I hadn't contacted Claudia purely in a fit of nostalgia. I'd contacted her because it was business.

_But not MY business._ The past was the past, and I was sure Claudia would want this particular piece of the past to remain forgotten.

And I was about to rip open an old wound simply because the public would want all the juicy details about Claudia's imprisonment, and because it would be a story everyone would want to read and cash in on. My own job as a reporter would be extensively furthered if I could create a 'juicy' report on how a victim deals with such awful things as torture and imprisonment.

Did I have the guts?

The eleven-year-old Mallory in me was glaring. She would cross her arms and stamp her foot and probably say something about how she'd 'never, ever' hurt a friend. No matter what.

I decided to wait. If I wrote back to Claudia now, I'd probably let it slip that I wasn't just calling to remember good old times.

And that wouldn't do me any good. It was likely that Claudia thought I was still just a naïve wannabe-writer who was itching to talk about hair and makeup. Which was good, in a way. She wouldn't know I was about to ask some painful questions, and so she'd be more cooperative.

Besides, I was about to make contact with someone who had known me during some of the most awkward years of my life. I didn't even know what to say.

. . . .

_Hi, Claudia! Oh, I'm so glad to hear back from you! It's hard to believe just how much the BSC fell apart. I know you wrote once to say it fell apart, but I didn't think you meant it literally. I thought you were doing what Jessi would have; telling me the BSC couldn't survive without me._

Too arrogant? Or did it sound bitter because I'd mentioned (as subtly as I could) that Claudia had only written me once after my transfer to Riverbend Hall?

Did I dare mention that I'd seen the News?

Maybe I shouldn't. She'd probably be upset because I'd seen the News and hadn't bothered to bring it up for ten years. Or bothered to contact her sooner.

"You're moping again," Jessi said, entering the room with a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. "Did you write anything to Claudia yet?"

"See for yourself." I moved aside and Jessi took my place in front of the ancient old computer. She scrolled through my messages, then Claudia's.

"'Jessi is completely avoiding answering me,'" Jessi read aloud. "I didn't know what."

"There's a lot I haven't told her. Like what the 'important' thing is I have to tell her. I can't just say I'm about four days away from losing my job because they didn't like that stupid article on teen clubs."

Jessi just gave me a look. "So when will you tell Claudia that you aren't actually interested in talking to her aside from in pursuit of a promotion?"

"It isn't like that. I do want to talk to her—"

"Yeah, about the whole bloody mess of a decade ago, when you were twelve and ignoring all of _my _letters to you at Riverbend. Which reminds me, why did you make me the bad guy? I wrote to you and yet I'm the one who 'completely avoided you.'"

"I was just doing that stupid thing about cutting people out of my life before they can do so to me," I defended myself, but she was right. "I'll tell her, don't worry. And I'm not going to bombard her with questions. I'm just going to ask, as a friend."

"And then publish it all for the world to read. Don't you think she'll figure that out?" Jessi gave me another look, settling down on my bed. Of the two of us, she remained worried about Claudia's feelings through it all. She would never have made a good reporter. You won't ever get a story out of someone if you constantly reconsider every question you have to ask. Maybe that, plus the fact that she's had an accident and couldn't be a ballerina, was why she was now editing books for publishing.

"Yes, but by then I'll be long gone."

"So you _are_ just using her. I knew it! You promised to be considerate, Mal."

"I will be! Man, it's not like she was raped yesterday and I want every detail for a gossip column! It's the News, Jess. It's my job to report the truth."

"Yes, but then why not report on last week's oil spill, or something the environmentalists will go organic nuts over?"

"Because a story like this will be something everyone who remembers the atrocities of ten years ago will want to read. Very few details were released, you know."

"Atrocities, Mal. You mentioned last night that this could all 'reopen a wound.' I've got the feeling this one never healed, and all you can talk about is the fact that 'Ten Years Later' or 'A Blast of the Past' would both make great titles for your story. Which, by the way, isn't a fairy tale or a work of fiction. This was all very real to Claudia, and it probably still is. She isn't going to want to talk about it, especially now."

"What, because Dahlia's going to be out of jail soon?"

"Why are you even writing that thing? We have all of the details."

"It's the personal stuff that'll sell the story. You know, nightmares, flashbacks, lingering aches and pains, triggers. The stuff we don't like to think about, or shouldn't, and what most of us won't admit to thinking about, is the stuff people will buy the paper for. They love that juicy gossip. Humiliation, too."

Jessi was staring at me.

"Oh, come on! It was an example! I don't plan on humiliating Claudia!"

"Not after you dredge up all of her worst memories," Jessi scoffed. "Mallory, I'm not an idiot, okay? I know this article is important to you. But don't forget about the things you promised yourself. You were there when Claudia and Dawn were stranded and those reporters were asking their parents how they felt, and you vowed never to be like them. Don't let writing your story get in the way of promises like that."

Jessi left, and I sat there for a few minutes, my own mind plunged into the past. Jessi was right; completely and totally. I'd seen plenty of occasions on which reporters harassed people who were grieving and in pain for the sake of writing a story. I'd hated them, recalling Stacey's death and knowing that if someone were to ask me, with the world watching, how I was feeling about it, that I would have been mortified and furious.

Of course, I'd already written and published several articles that the human subjects of weren't happy about. But that hadn't stopped me. Maybe, mostly, because they hadn't been people I'd known and cared about and gone through so much together.

Still, I was a reporter. What had happened ten years ago was terrible, but Claudia was still alive. And it was my job to report the stories of the living and the facts of death. I'd wanted to be a writer my whole life, and while writing for the local newspaper wasn't the best job, it wasn't the worst. I'd always been nosy and interested in other people's business, and now I could report it. It was like being a legal and more or less respected gossip columnist.

But this was going to take some thought. Even if talking about it would help/hurt Claudia, it would definitely further my career, unless I wimped out. And like it or not, my boss wanted me to at least question (or, as it's called, "interview") Claudia. I could do that. I couldn't report anything about the BSC, so my questions would have to revolve around the one thing she didn't want to bring up—and the one thing Jessi was sure would hurt our friendship, or at least, the last shreds of it.

It was definitely going to take some thought.

. . . .

"Mallory Pike! What in the world is _wrong_ with you?"

I felt my eyes fluttering open and a dull ache in my shoulders. I was slumped over, my head on my crossed forearms, at my desk. The bright afternoon sunlight had faded into a rosy twilight, and Jessi was stalking into the room, accusingly holding up a sheet of paper I'd been looking for.

"You made a list! About everything Claudia endured! You were trying to come up with questions about it, weren't you?"

I sat back and stretched, wincing at the sharp, tingling pain. "You knew I would."

"Not these kinds of questions! You can't ask the victim of something so heinous to answer questions like these!" Jessi flipped the page and I could see her eyes scanning over the list of questions I was supposed to ask (a list I hadn't yet edited to make sure the questions were okay.) But Jessi was beyond that. "'What kinds of things were done to you?' 'How did you feel about the explosion?' 'What kinds of tortures were performed?'"

"I have to ask questions, Jessi. It's my job. And that's not the list I'm going to be using when I interview Claudia. Those are just trial questions."

Jessi glared at me. "'Were any of the prisoners sexually abused or assaulted?'"

"Okay, so that's one I probably won't ask. I know Ashley was—"

"Yes, we do. So why not just make an article with the facts you obviously already have? People love facts."

"They also go for human stories where people recount and recall things that happened to them. Especially big things like this, when the story made the News and the victims all hid."

"I think they hid for a reason."

Her silent insult wasn't missed. '_Claudia was hiding from reporters, and you want to use your former 'friend' status against her._'

Jessi left in a huff, and I stood up and reached for the paper she'd dropped on my bed. Okay, so a lot of the questions were insensitive and even cruel. But I knew people often enjoyed it when people on the News or in interviews for newspapers showed real emotion over what they were talking about. Some reporters went as far as trying to get the people they spoke to crying.

I wasn't going to do that. I'd ask my questions and get out of there.

I logged onto the computer and finished my e-mail to Claudia, adding a bunch of memories from the past and stuff to make it sound more friendly, less arrogant and bitter.

If I wanted anything from Claudia, I was going to have to be nice.

Once I had sent the article to the publisher, everything would be fine. Jessi would go back to being my best friend, and maybe Claudia would be back in our lives. I'd go back to writing articles about car crashes and teen clubs and hockey games, and everything would be as it was before my boss found out I knew someone who could give us a potentially fantastic story, at the perfect time when her tormenter was about to be released. I could ask how she felt about _that_.

"Jessi, did you see my notebook?" I called, prepared to write up a list of questions I could actually ask Claudia if she and I got together. I wouldn't even have to tell her it was an interview, but that would make writing down everything she said much harder.

The only response to my question was the slamming of the front door to our brownstone, and I knew then that Jessi had heard me but wanted nothing to do with my questioning Claudia.

_Maybe she's just jealous that I'll get to talk to Claudia before she can, or that I'm going to ruin her chances at even talking to Claudia._

I pushed the thought away and headed for my kitchen, where I'd probably left my notebook. I like to write while I eat or while waiting for the water the boil if I'm cooking. My book was lying next to the stove, and I grabbed it…just as something grabbed _me._

Just as my hand wrapped around the spine of the spiral notebook, a strong arm reached around me and pinned me into whoever was holding me. They were strong; I was lifted several inches off the floor. (Then again, I didn't weight very much.) I tried to scream, but the hand over my mouth prevented me from making anything more than a startled grunting sound. Something silky and black was wrapped around my forehead and eyes. I could hear an electronic beeping noise, and my first thought was that my attacker had a bomb.

The person pushed me down onto the couch and I didn't have time to react before a harsh kick to the ribs knocked the breath out of me. I gasped, and thought I faintly heard, over the rushing, ringing noise in my ears, that someone was saying 'Hello?' It sounded far-off, like someone was calling over the static on a phone. The air I'd managed to take in was pushed back out a coughing gasp as first a kick to the chest and then a blow to the head sent my sprawling. I felt someone step on the back of my neck—not hard enough to kill me, but enough to let me know not to move or the heavy leather boot would crush my throat—and I could distinctly, over the sound of my own gasping breaths, hear that the person who'd kicked me was talking on the phone. Then, as I felt my vision blacken and my head spin, I felt the pressure on my neck dissipate and heard the sound of heavy, quick footsteps leading away from me.

I was alone.

* * *

**Author's Note: I know the attack Claudia heard over the phone took place before Mallory's second note reached her, but if the BSC timeline can be inconsistent, so can mine. I wrote that Mallory replies to Claudia (who doesn't respond until after Mal's second e-mail reaches her) when Claudia replies to the second e-mail…I think. I'm really confused. But anyway, I decided it was Mallory getting some of what she deserved for trying to use the worst of Claudia's past to help herself. Please review! I think this one's boring...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Claudia? Did you make that sound?"

"What sound?" I asked, knowing perfectly well that it had probably been one of the neighbors or even just Ashley's imagination. Since the news of Dahlia's upcoming release four days earlier, we'd been tuned in to everything. Water dripping in the sink, rustling leaves, and neighbors walking around; every sound had us on the edge. I didn't think I could take another sleepless night of scrutinizing the shadows and thinking that somewhere in the darkness of my little room, someone could be watching me, their hands wrapped around a machete and their heart beating, knowing mine soon wouldn't be.

"It sounded like a window. Did you open one?" Even as she spoke, Ashley was looking around like she expected the chair to jump up and bite her. As plain as day, all of the windows were wide open in the room. It had suddenly stopped raining, and although the air was hot and stale, the wind was refreshing.

"Not since the last time you asked."

"Oh. Sorry," she said, and turned to leave. She paused in the doorway. "Dahlia's going to be out of jail the day after tomorrow, and we're already so paranoid that if the other took a breath, one of us would have a heart attack. Do you think we're safe here?"

I sighed and swiveled to face her. She looked pale and tired, and nervous. We both glanced toward the window at the same time, although there was nothing to see. It was eight P.M., so the sun was mostly down, but the only thing we saw was our own reflections and the lamp lighting the room. It was what we called the 'living room,' although it was more like a bathroom-sized bedroom. We had a single desk there, and a bookshelf and an armchair. The desk held the lamp and my journal, and the bookshelf contained thirteen dictionaries (working in a bookstore means you need a pretty good vocabulary) and about forty other books, about half of which were Ashley's cookbooks because neither of us was very good when we decided to live on our own.

"With all of our locks and so on, yes. I think so."

"Really? I mean, good. Good," she repeated. She looked slightly less nervous now. "Mind if I join you?"

"Go ahead." I'd found we both seemed to feel better if we were together, at least sometimes. So while I wrote in my journal, enjoying the time off my feet after a ten-hour shift at the bookstore, where I was one of the only workers, Ashley pulled a book from the shelf and settled into the armchair, turning on the second lamp.

"Long day at the bookstore?" Ashley guessed, seeing my feet suspended on the wheels of the chair about five minutes later.

"You could say that. It was no longer than usual, but it felt like en extra five hours."

"Wasn't Mr. Kipell going to hire someone to help out?"

"Yes, but nobody else is interested in working for nine dollars an hour, which is strange because it's a pretty good salary for a retail position. And you get free books."

A teenager covered the weekend shifts. But from eight A.M. to six P.M., Monday to Friday, I worked the cash register, organize the misplaced books at the end of the day, and pick up any litter that customers managed to sneak past me _and_ leave on the floor or shelves, despite the 'No Food Or Drink' sign at the front. But the fifty-hour weekly job paid $1800 in a month, so I wasn't going to complain if I found a Tim Horton's cup on a shelf and a Reese Cups package in with the children's books. Our rent for the whole apartment (which was small but fine) was only $2000, so after Ashley and I each paid our $1000, and about $270 each in bills (food, mostly, since most of the other things were included with the unit thanks to the previous owners), we had enough spending money to be quite comfortable. I always put five hundred dollars a month into my savings account, and left thirty dollars out to buy snacks for the month. Luckily I didn't need to take the bus to work; saving money was surprisingly fun. If I'd been a kid, I would have spent it all on art supplies.

Which was still tempting sometimes. I still had an easel and canvases and paints, but I kept them in my room and stuck to painting. No beading or pottery or even much sketching. It was also easier to keep clean, since I didn't have to wash my hands and my snacks every time I was looking for a Twinkie and managed to wedge my hand into a box of charcoal.

"Are we still going to the mall tomorrow?" Ashley asked, which was perfect timing, because I'd just been thinking about all of the fun things one can do once they've saved enough money. I might've outgrown doing every imaginable form of art, but I'd never outgrown junk food and clothes. I'd gained a bit of weight over the years, due to my love of junk food, but that was fine. Who cared? I was happy. Besides, I wasn't fat—probably all thanks to Ashley convincing me to get up and exercise with her every day. You know you aren't a teenager when you can't eat junk food without gaining weight.

"I _have_ to go to the mall tomorrow," I answered. "I need better shoes if I'm going to be on my feet nine hours a day." (I have an hour where I can have lunch and sit if I want to. I like to do four and a half hours in the morning, and another four and a half when my break is over.) Some days, twelve-thirty couldn't come (or stay) fast/long enough.

Ashley nodded, and we fell back into our own activities; silently reading or writing but aware as we could be of the noises and presence of the other.

It used to be that I couldn't stand it when someone made noise when I was trying to do something—like write in my journal or read a book. Now, I found noises (if I knew it was Ashley causing them) comforting.

But lying in the dark, hoping to fall asleep (and wake up the next morning, not sooner, even though waking up at all was something I was more grateful for) was a whole different story. I dreaded sleep because nightmares still plagued me, and because I knew I was a much easier target if I wasn't quite awake. It was only Wednesday night (technically, though, very early on Thursday morning) and Dahlia was going to have her final parole hearing and be released (though why she had to have another hearing if she was going to be released anyway, I didn't know) within a few days.

I'd researched 'parole' on the Internet, and came up with enough of an understanding of it to watch more of the News reports. It seemed that for every hour of News, Dahlia was mentioned at least once.

This was going to be a big story. I was pretty sure of that.

I was even more sure when the phone rang the next day, and it was a reporter asking to speak to me (and then to Ashley) about everything that had happened. I'd been as polite as I could and told the woman I had nothing to say about it, but Ashley and I both ended up taking several calls that day (but thank goodness for a ten-hour work day and a shopping trip afterwards!) from reporters, asking questions. Finally, when it rang again at ten-forty, we just unplugged it.

"Can you imagine how this is going to be once Dahlia's actually released? They're going to call us every minute, and show up at work, and even follow us home!" She hesitated, gripping her cup of Cream Soda as though it was going to save her life. It was about forty degrees, and all of the windows were open, the fans on. Ashley and I were both wearing short shorts and tank tops. "And I really, _really_ don't want to talk about anything that happened ten years ago. I don't even want to _think_ about it!"

I nodded my agreement. I was stirring the contents of my cup, which consisted of a creamy vanilla ice-cream and Orange Crush combination, something my mom used to make a lot. "I know. How can they think we'd want to tell the public every detail? Tell strangers about all of those awful things that happened? To us, and to the others? How can they think they could even _ask_?"

"They don't understand what happened, so they assume it's okay to ask. People are told that if they don't understand something, asking questions is a good way to start. But what happened isn't anyone else's business. It's mine, yours, Bobbi's, Kerry's, and even Dahlia's, but that's it."

"Do you think it was someone we knew?" I asked, thinking of the phone call I'd gotten the other day. Somehow, despite how distant (as in 'far apart,' not 'really cool' as I'd have said at thirteen) Ashley and I usually were, she seemed to know exactly what I was talking about even though I hadn't explained.

"On the phone? Probably not. It was probably just someone who punched themselves to make the sound you heard. Maybe it was someone just calling to psych us out."

"It worked."

Ashley laughed a little. "Yeah, well…nobody else has to know about that. Anyway, even if we did know who it was, don't you think they'd have mentioned it?"

"Unless it was someone we don't talk to anymore. Wouldn't it be great if it was a reporter they got? Someone they thought we knew? That might teach them not to call."

"Yeah, right. The reporter could then use it against us. 'I was mercilessly beaten for you, and you won't even answer my questions?'" Ashley said, imitating a nasal voice. "Or not, since they'd want you to think they just have your best interests at heart and aren't asking because they want everyone else to know, too."

"Well, luckily we don't know any reporters, or our friendship would really suffer." I finished my dessert and rinsed my cup, even though it was getting late and I can't sleep too well if I have sugar after supper. "So, this might be a silly time to ask, but why did you go to the mall today? I had to go buy new sneakers, and you came because…?"

"I didn't want to be alone. And I had to buy this." Ashley hurried back to her room, and a moment later, reappeared with something in her closed hand. She held it out to me.

I held out my hand and she dropped whatever she'd gotten into my palm. It was a lipstick; nothing more. It was one of those ridiculously expensive things, a foggy red tube with a silver metallic cap and silver, sparkly writing on the red. It had probably cost more than my whole nail polish collection. But still, it was just lipstick.

"You spent three bucks on bus fare and spent an hour in the mall just to buy lipstick?"

"I have a date!" Ashley grinned, eyes bright. "Who cares how much it cost? This is going to go so well with my new dress!"

I rolled my eyes a little, but Ashley was already letting out every detail. Apparently, her Mr. Right (or Mr. Right Now, since Ashley has had more boyfriends than most women ever do) was a handsome twenty-five-year old photography teacher. She was so enthusiastic that when there was a clicking sound at the door, neither of us heard it.

When Ashley was finally winding down a moment later, we heard the sound. We both fell silent, eyes wide, suddenly tense.

"Someone there?" Ashley called, and we stood up in unison, heading for the hall when nobody answered. But we didn't find anything, even when I hesitantly opened the door.

"It could have been someone's idea of a joke," I suggested, but Ashley and I closed the windows and locked everything, despite the heat. Then, about two hours later, we were both bored because it was too hot to sleep and decided to open just one of the windows, which led to both of us passing out (from either heat or exhaustion, or a healthy combination) in the living room. Ashley was slumped over in an armchair, and I was sprawled on the couch (which was actually a Hide-A-Bed we kept folded) and cursing the fact that the fabric was slippery and therefore seemed to retain heat, as well as push me off onto the floor. I'm sure I woke the downstairs neighbors each time I fell off.

After that torturous night, which we spent trying to sleep and listening for strange noises, I decided I was really looking forward to the weekend, even if it was going to be part of the first few days of Dahlia's freedom. I had one more shift before I was free. However, even I wasn't going to be able to relax, even though working in a bookstore wasn't exactly relaxing. Especially today, when Dahlia's release from prison was imminent. In fact, her hearing was to be today.

"By this afternoon, Dahlia could be walking the streets of Chicago," Ashley said, at breakfast. It wasn't what I wanted to hear after a night of sweating, sleeping, startling, and aching muscles. Pouring cereal had been enough pain for one day.

"I know," I replied, instead of mentioning any of that. "I know it's odd to watch TV in a bookstore, but if I tune it to the News, it won't be so weird…"

"You want to watch for news about Dahlia?" Ashley gave me a sidelong look. "Why? It's going to happen, whether we know when or not. I'd rather be prepared and forget all about it."

"Me too. But I want to know everything about her. How she looks, how she acts, what she says. If she's coming after me, I want to know about it. Not that she'd say anything incriminating while being released from prison and hounded by reporters, but maybe I can see it in her face."

Ashley shook her head and shrugged. "Good luck. But I'm not going to watch. I want nothing more than to see her dead, and looking into her face as _she_ faces freedom is more than I can handle. She'll probably look like a wild animal released from captivity. Like someone tasting chocolate for the first time. Victorious, happy. Two things I spent ten years wishing she'd never feel again."

I understood perfectly. But I just had to see her again—what she looked like, how she acted, how she would react to freedom. I knew it wasn't going to be easy to look into her eyes and know that those same eyes had once watched me suffer, knowing that the smiling mouth I was about to see would be remembered better as a cruel sneer that once laughed when I wanted nothing more than to cry.

"Do you think Bobbi will go to the release trial?"

"It's her sister, so she might. Or not. I don't know. Bobbi and Dahlia weren't that close, and after all they've been through, I doubt it's going to be a tearful, joyful reunion. Bobbi'll probably have to face the press, though. She'll just say she has kids, she's moved on, and has more important things to deal with."

"Ouch. I hope Dahlia doesn't take it all to mean she has to be evil to get our attention." Ashley poked at her pancakes, and I was remembering something Ashley had just unwittingly pushed to the front of my mind. Something about their mother…what was it?

"Bobbi once said that Dahlia was their mother's favorite," I recalled, suddenly aware of the thought. "How did Dahlia end up so cruel if she was the favorite? You always see in those horror movies that it's the quiet, ignored ones who are the ones to be afraid of, but in this case, the one in the spotlight was the one to fear?"

Ashley was looking at me again, like I'd gone crazy and just sang the alphabet. "Dahlia was full of contradictions."

"True. Sorry," I added, and it was like I'd just realized that Ashley was probably even more wary of Dahlia than I was. She'd been held captive longer, had been hurt worse.

"It's just going to be weird for Dahlia to come into a world where she's not anyone's favorite. She's just the opposite now."

Again, Ashley looked at me like I was growing green hair. "How can you keep talking about it? Aren't you scared?"

"A little," I admitted, "but ignoring it won't make the problem go away."

"That's what everyone says. Except if you're the loudmouth in school. Then the teachers say to ignore that kid, and they'll settle down when they realize nobody's paying attention. It doesn't work that way with broken bones or lunatics. They don't just go away, even if they heal. It's usually worse. Broken bones won't heal if you treat them with ignorance, because you'll just make it worse when you run a marathon on it. And in Dahlia's case, she was ignored and so she decided to get everyone's attention. It worked. But you can't ignore her, or she'll just end up caging and beating hundreds of people again. That's why I'm not _ignoring_ her. I'm pretending she never existed. I just want all of this forgotten, and—" she pointed to the phone as she said 'and,' "I want everyone else to leave us alone. I don't want to talk about it or even think about it."

I was pretty sure I saw a faint glimmer of tears in her eyes as she got up, but I wasn't sure. But I was sure that she was right. I was suddenly a little less sure of my decision to watch for mention of Dahlia on the News broadcasts.

* * *

**Author's Note: Please tell me if this chapter was a disappointment. Even if it is, it'll get better! I promise! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

On Saturday morning, I woke up with the feeling that somehow, everything was going to be chaotic from that point on. It wasn't a good feeling, especially since I'd spent the previous day recalling the one News broadcast I'd managed to suffer through—the one that covered Dahlia's exit from the courthouse and into more freedom than I'd wanted her to have.

She wasn't going to be totally free, of course. She'd be on probation for the rest of her life, and have to check in with a parole officer a few times a month. She also wasn't allowed to leave the country, which made me seriously consider moving to Canada or Japan—or just anywhere Dahlia couldn't be. But I'd seen her on the News, just briefly—there were so many reporters around that every glimpse of Dahlia came from between microphones, cameras, and people in long black coats and flashing badges, through an incomprehensible clamor of questions—and I'd taken one look at her and shuddered. Her eyes hadn't changed. She was smiling, and obviously putting on a show, but her eyes remained unchanged. It was like she just didn't care about her freedom, or the fact that she was finally getting what she'd always wanted. Attention.

Ashley had been avoiding the TV and the Internet altogether. When I found her, she was playing Pinball on the computer, but not looking like she was particularly enjoying it. She looked concentrated on something only she could see, even though her eyes looked unfocused. It was a daydreaming, thoughtful, bad-mood look. I left her alone.

I decided to take a shower and head over to Bobbi's. It was another hot day, and a dip in the pool, as well as a long chat, would make me feel better. More importantly, I wanted to make sure Bobbi was doing well; undoubtedly she'd be nervous about her sister's release and the possibility that Dahlia would come looking for her.

Dahlia probably had been told we (her family and her victims) were moving to Chicago to be closer to her. Would she assume we were still here, or would she even remember? Would she bother to look? I hoped not.

But I found out the hard way that even if Dahlia wasn't looking for us, plenty of other people were. Black vans lined the front of Bobbi's house, and reporters were crowded around the front gate. Police officers were making sure the reporters didn't climb the fence (though who would bother, since it was lined with barbed wire, was beyond me) and when I reached the gate, being jostled by the restless crowd, armed guards (Bobbi's) and Chicago officers had to stand there and make sure only I got through, and that the reporters stayed off of Battista property.

I was sure I'd have to face them—and their questions, since I was allowed in and had been able to talk to Bobbi—when I came out. I hoped the police would still be there.

Bobbi was waiting for me at the door. We ignored the shouted questions and various comments and Bobbi closed (and locked) the door behind me.

"How are you?" I asked instantly. Bobbi looked pale and concerned.

"Terrified. But I'm doing better now that I know Dahlia is legally not allowed within five hundred feet of us." Bobbi led me through the house and to the backyard. From beyond the tall hedges lining the fence, we could hear reporters. They were still yelling.

"Where is everyone?"

"Michael took the twins up to see a family friend in Canada for the weekend," Bobbi said, sounding tired. "We thought it would be best that they not have to play outside and pick up on words like 'rape' and 'murder.' Kerry's in her room, presumably drowning everyone out."

"Why did you stay?"

Bobbi bit her lip. "I guess I felt I owed it to myself. I know running away wouldn't solve anything, and I'd feel like I was running away if I went with them. Besides, they'd still be here when we got back. They'd just ask if we were guilty, because we ran away."

"True." I pushed the thought of moving to Japan out of my mind and Bobbi gestured to the pool with a wave of her hand.

"Go ahead, if you like. I'll be joining you in a moment." She smiled. "I haven't brushed my hair yet today. I was more concerned with making sure the doors were all locked."

I accepted the offer gratefully and pulled off my tank top and skirt. I was wearing my bathing suit underneath, and headed for the diving board at the edge of the pool.

"We're now standing just outside the backyard of Bobbi Battista, Dahlia Battista's sister. So far, nobody has been available for comment despite the close family relationship." The voice was coming from beyond the bushes, and for a moment, I just stood on the diving board, listening. It sounded businesslike, as though the person speaking was being seen by hundreds or thousands of people. Probably a reporter with a microphone in her face and a camera aimed at her.

I somersaulted into the pool, and Bobbi joined me the same way about five minutes later, her hair pulled into a French-braided bun high on her head. I wanted to ask her how she'd done that so quickly, but we could still hear the reporters milling around outside.

After a quiet hour in the pool, she and I went inside to dry off, cool off, and talk. We settled into the living room, wrapped only in towels, and a maid brought in a tray of assorted cookies and bars and soda cans.

"I didn't want to talk much outside," Bobbi said, taking a crispy chocolate wafer from the tray before the maid had even set it down. I took a chocolate square as the maid left, but Bobbi didn't speak until the maid had gently closed the massive door behind her. "But I think Kerry's taking this all pretty hard. She was only seven years old when our mother died, and Dahlia had already been in jail for quite some time. She wasn't close to either of them, but even so, I imagine this is hard for her. I have the feeling a lot of the kids at school have been asking questions."

It might have been odd for any other older sister to talk about her sister that way, but for Bobbi, I knew it was natural for her to sound like Kerry's mother. She wasn't physically Kerry's mother, but I knew she was, mentally and emotionally.

I nodded in understanding. "I know the kids at school asked me plenty of questions about everything when I was just a little older than she was. It must be hard."

"I think she's mad at me. I know she understands everything, because I've gone over it with her, but even so…she wants to go to school to learn, not to answer questions about things that happened before she could really remember them. Even parents of some of the students have been questioning Kerry. I'm considering lodging a complaint with the school." Seeing my expression, she shrugged. "I might be overreacting, but children are minors and therefore to be protected until the age of majority. Kerry doesn't even want to go to school anymore, and I can't say I blame her. People are asking questions about me, and about Dahlia, that aren't very good questions to ask a thirteen-year-old girl. Adults don't think about that before they ask, though. Kerry even brought one of the parents to me when she couldn't answer a question. I almost slapped that woman. What adult would ask a child about her jailed sister's crimes?"

"I never even stopped to consider that the kids at Kerry's school would ask about this."

"Neither did I. Luckily, the kids in the twins' class are too young to care, and their parents don't seem to be paying as much attention as parents of older kids. Probably because the kids are younger, so there's more to do. In any case, dealing with Kerry's classmates and their parents is bad enough. I can't understand why the reporters went after Kerry. You won't see that on TV," Bobbi added. "I saw them surrounding her on the school stairs yesterday, and I barged in and called them a few choice names. I'm quite sure they won't be airing any of that."

"Like the time I was missing, and the reporters came after my BSC friends," I remembered. "Stacey and her mother both told them off when they asked how they were feeling about having friends and family members missing, and what they said guaranteed their interviews weren't shown on TV."

Bobbi laughed, pulling her towel closer around her. We'd wrapped ourselves in beach towels and left our wet bathing suits on the sunny porch to dry. "I just wish—"

She was interrupted by a knock on the door, which, without hesitation, opened. Kerry stood there, holding out her cell phone and looking annoyed. "They're calling me on my private line."

Bobbi took the phone from Kerry and listened for a moment. Kerry helped herself to the tray on the table, picking up several chocolate cookies and heading for the door to the library, which is just beyond the living room. She closed the door behind her.

"If you call this number again, I'm reporting you and your company for harassment." Bobbi hung up, glanced around, and set the phone on the table. "The reporters got Kerry's number somehow. I wish they'd just stop calling already. I've already disconnected the phone and blocked several News networks, but I'm not sure it's working."

She reminded me of Ashley. We started talking about Ashley's reaction to the news, and for the next two hours or so, we were caught up in a conversation that started out gloomy and brightened into talk about plans for the summer break. Our conversation was so enthusiastic (at least compared to the talk about Dahlia) that when Kerry came out of the library, we didn't notice at first. She overheard us talking about men, and grabbed her phone and ran out, yelling something that sounded like 'Eew!'

It was then that, for the first time in what felt like days, we both laughed.

. . . .

"Your boyfriend called," Ashley said, as soon as I walked in. "He's been looking for you, apparently."

"You plugged the phone back in?" I asked. "Why isn't it ringing?"

"He called on your cell. I guess you left it at home," Ashley added. She looked annoyed. "It woke me up."

"Sorry. You can go back to sleep now. I'm going to call him back from my room." I picked up my phone from the kitchen table and headed out, and Ashley shrugged. She'd once asked my boyfriend out on a date, but luckily for both of them, he refused. I'd been missing him lately, but things had been so crazy that I hadn't even called him. I hoped he wasn't worried.

"Claudia?" Tobias asked, as soon as he answered the phone.

"Is that a 'hello'?" I asked, teasingly. "Boy, I've missed you!"

Tobias didn't laugh, as some other boys might've. "I missed you too! Have you seen the News? They mentioned you."

It was somehow different when Tobias mentioned it. He sounded casually curious. "Yes, I've seen it," I replied, "and actually, I'm kind of avoiding it. You know my friend, the meteorologist?" (That was Bobbi, who Tobias knew about but hadn't ever met.) "I was leaving her house and I was mobbed by reporters. I'll bet, even though they didn't get any answers from me, that my face'll be on the News tonight."

"If you're hiding from Dahlia, don't you think you should try to keep away from the cameras?" Tobias didn't sound condescending, but I couldn't help feeling a little like he was making a joke about 'hiding' from Dahlia.

"It's not like I wanted them to shove a camera in my face," I replied. "But anyway, how've you been?" I hesitated. "I know we haven't been able to spend much time together lately."

"Tired." He sounded a little edgy, as though he didn't really want to talk about it. There was a sharp breath, and then I heard him clear his throat. When he spoke again, he sounded like he was trying to hide his amusement at something. "So are you free later tonight? I was hoping we could try that new Italian restaurant on Main Street. Supposed to be great."

"Yeah, I'm free," I said nonchalantly.

"So you want to go?" Tobias asked, but as he finished speaking, I heard an odd noise. A moaning sound, like the sound I once heard coming from Janine's room before she left. And it wasn't Ashley; I could hear her in the kitchen making something.

Tobias hung up, confirming my suspicions. It hadn't been him; he'd been with a girl. A girl who had made him laugh while on the phone with me, who had made him sound amused, who had made him inhale sharply—someone who moaned while he was talking to his girlfriend and doing who knew what behind her back.

Despite the knowledge, I didn't feel hurt and upset. Just empty, which was how I'd felt for quite a while ten years earlier. But I'd been feeling fine, or comparatively fine, since.

I joined Ashley in the kitchen, and over macaroni and cheese (thank goodness for KD) I told her everything I'd heard. She was instantly upset with him.

"What nerve!" she fumed. "Calling you and asking you out while another girl is—well, obviously not just hanging out with him, that's obvious." Then, she glanced at me, her expression one of concern. "Oops. I'm sorry. That wasn't very sensitive."

I shrugged and waved one of my hands dismissively. Unfortunately, I wasn't paying attention and used the hand holding the fork to wave, so several cheesy noodles went flying. Ashley snorted in an attempt to conceal her laughter, but I had to laugh. I cleaned it up, feeling better.

"You don't seem upset," Ashley observed.

I sighed. My mood sank slightly. "I'm not, really. I just feel empty now, kind of like…the worst has happened, so why should I care? It can't get any worse."

"Of course it can. It could be _much_ worse. But it could also be better," Ashley allowed. "Okay, quick question…did the News ever mention how long Dahlia would be behind bars? Because ten years doesn't seem like a lot. And…why did we move with the Battista family to Chicago? I know they came because Dahlia was family and had to be kept in a maximum-security prison, but what are we doing here?"

"I guess they gave her a short sentence because she was a teenager, technically, when she committed the crimes. I don't remember if they ever announced her sentence publicly…they probably didn't, because they knew people would be outraged." I hesitated, trying to remember the rest of Ashley's question. I couldn't, and when I was silent, she reminded me.

"After everything that had happened, I wouldn't have felt right not seeing Bobbi every few days. Kerry, too. And with her family already shredded and being torn apart further by Dahlia…her imprisonment, her crimes, everything…and my own family so shocked by everything, I guess…we just felt we needed to stick together. Once you got out of the hospital, we knew it would only be right to take you in, and stick together like a family."

"I really do feel closer to you," Ashley confided. "The last week has been…well, I've been so nervous that I guess I just needed you more. That sounds really lame, I guess. But I'm…oh, I guess I'm just tired. I'm not even making any sense to myself."

"No, I get it," I interrupted. "I understand perfectly. We moved to Chicago because we all needed a change…to get away from certain memories. And certain people—"

"The one person I wanted to get away from is in Chicago," Ashley interrupted, "and she probably knows we're here, too. Hey, that reminds me. I want to call Bobbi." She purposefully ignored my surprise (she and Bobbi have never really been friendly with each other) and asked for the number, which I gave her.

"You want to call Bobbi?" I repeated, as she was pulling out her cellular phone.

"Her mother was a lawyer, so she'd probably understand a lot of what's happening. Isn't there a way people can appeal the release of someone like Dahlia?"

"I don't know. I know the suspects, or the prisoners, or whatever, can appeal their sentences or convictions. I don't know if the public can appeal a release."

"Well, if they can, Bobbi should try. She's the closest to Dahlia, and she's the one with the most to lose. She has a family, and if Dahlia remembers that we were all in Chicago, she'll be looking for us. And she'll probably go after the children first, because Dahlia was that kind of crazy." She dialed the numbers and held the receiver to her ear.

"Oh, um…she might not answer. The reporters have been calling her, too…"

Ashley silenced me by holding up a finger. Faintly, I could hear the sound of the phone ringing on the other end of the line. I left her alone and headed for the computer in Ashley's room, since it's the only one with Internet and therefore, our 'shared' computer. I wanted to look up everything I could find about prisons; I vaguely remembered from my days of reading mysteries as a teenager that prisoners who were coming out of high-security prisons often had to be reintroduced slowly to the community—by being reinstated into a lower-security place where they had more freedom but weren't quite free yet, and if that was the case, Dahlia wouldn't just be walking the streets. She'd be slowly allowed to do things freely within the community, but under supervision at first. I was still nervous, because it would be much easier for her to escape if there was less security (and who had more experience with locks than she did?) but even so, some form of restrictions on her freedom was certainly better than nothing.

I just hoped it was true, and that Dahlia would have to be baby-sat by security guards—not so much for her own safety as for everyone else's—for a long time.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has reviewed so far!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**  
**Dahlia**

You never appreciate the things you have until you don't have them anymore.

I learned this the hard way. Up until I was fourteen, I had a perfect life—or about as perfect as life can be. Death is much more perfect; there are no flaws in death. Only in life do we make mistakes. But in the first fourteen years of my life, things were about as perfect as they could be. Both of my parents worked hard to earn money, and I had a twin sister who was usually there for me. But then I found out that my mother cheated on my father and gave birth to another daughter, who my father thought was his up until the day he died, about six months later. That taught me to appreciate family, flaws and all. But my sister now hates me, and my mother is dead. I'm sure Kerry doesn't remember me. And who could blame my twin for hating me?

I never appreciated my family until they were either dead or so far away from me mentally that I knew we could never connect. I was four years into my prison sentence when my mother died. I couldn't even go to the funeral.

Freedom was something else I never appreciated until I didn't have any. Privacy, too. What I did have was—not much. A small, cold cell, impersonal but for the window, and exactly forty two-inch bars separating me from comparative freedom. Beyond the bars was nothing more than a hallway and fourteen other cells. One thing I did have was a bit of personal space. We each had our own cell, perhaps because they were afraid we would all kill each other. But my cell had a bed, which was a steel frame with what felt like a paper mattress stretched across the top, and a toilet. The cells were designed so that my cell and the cells on each side of me had thick steel walls separating the lifers, so that the only person who could see me when I was using the toilet was the inmate directly across from me. Luckily, this was an all-female prison.

Ten years in a place like that might drive anyone else insane. But fortunately for me, I had plenty to think about. Bobbi's last words to me had been words most might want to forget. But I'd replayed them in my mind, several times a day, repeatedly every night. She had been me, and I had been her. She came to give me a speech; like a villain from a movie who calls out "Come get me!" while the superheroes are hot on the trail. I didn't know why she bothered. I spent many months thinking it over, and the best I could come up with was that she wanted closure, to see that I was really going to prison. I hadn't bothered to give her the satisfaction of an answer. Also, something I wouldn't admit to anyone, I didn't _have_ an answer. If she'd said "You're evil," I would have said, "And you're a goody-goody." If she'd said anything other than what she'd said, I would have had a cool and sarcastic retort. But what she'd said had numbed my mind.

The odd thing was, I couldn't remember what she'd said. I knew it had been enough to silence me when I wanted nothing more than to yell and scream at her until my voice died, but what she'd actually said to do that, I didn't know.

But I wasn't going to be here much longer. 'Here' was a place of such high security that the toilets didn't even have water, to prevent inmates from drowning themselves to take the easy way out. Soon, I'd be in a place that didn't smell of urine because none of the people who worked in the prison bothered to flush out the toilets. I'd be in a place that didn't have the acrid stench of sweat choking the air out of each of the cells because inmates weren't trusted to take a safe shower, even under armed protection.

I was going to have far more freedom than I likely deserved to ever have.

The one friend I'd made in prison was happy for me. She wouldn't be out of jail for years yet, since her crime had been committed while she was an adult, but she didn't seem to care about that. We'd spent hundreds of hours together while we were in prison and looked out for each other, despite an age difference that was over two decades wide.

The salty crunch of chips. The mouth-watering flavor of chocolate. The fizzy tingle of a cold Coke as it sat on your tongue. The fresh, sweet-smelling breeze as it ruffled your hair, and the way it blew your skirt around your legs. All were little things I'd missed. Of course, I missed bigger, more necessary, things—stretching out on a comfortable bed; being able to choose whether or not I wanted more or less light in my room; eating what I wanted, and when; and taking a shower without having the possibility of fifty sets of eyes on me.

"Do you think it'll be scary?" Ginger asked, when she and I were as alone as we could be during our two hours of "playtime" in the 'yard.' "You don't have a home to go to, and I don't think anyone you knew ten years ago would take you in. I could be wrong, but—"

"No, you're right," I interrupted. Ginger had once been a promiscuous prostitute who worked for a pimp. But her job hadn't been to seduce men as much as it had been to entice girls to 'check out' the 'profession' and once she'd brought them to her boss, they were forced to…well, obviously, you know what happened. 'Ginger' was serving a life sentence for luring minors into forced sexual/abusive situations. I didn't know her real name. "I had a sister ten years ago. Now I don't doubt she'd spent the whole decade wishing I was dead."

"Well, girl, you defeated the decade, and the decade didn't defeat you." Ginger bounced off the picnic table we'd been sharing and stretched. I didn't doubt that she'd once been beautiful; her curly brown hair seemed to glow a cinnamon-colored red-blonde in the sunlight, and she'd somehow altered her hideous jumpsuit to hug her curves and almost look good on her. "Your sister will probably be surprised, at least once the News reports you as being a 'dangerous criminal back among the throngs of idiots in society.'" Ginger cocked her head, and her ridiculously long eyelashes cast shadows down her makeup-free cheeks and down to her jaw-line, which was more evident out in the sun than it ever was inside the cells. "What about a house, or an apartment? Don't they have to provide you with something, money or a free phone call or something, to help you get set up before you actually end up outside?"

"Actually, I think I'll be going to some kind of low-security place for a while first," I said, "and that's where I'll be taught how to find a house, get a job. All the stuff I should have been learning years ago."

"And you leave tomorrow," Ginger added wistfully. "Hey, you know what that means? Weekends will have a meaning now! It won't just be another Saturday gone!"

We both laughed. "I'll be sure to visit when I'm free enough to come back."

"Are you insane? You'd come back here once you're free?" Ginger looked truly surprised. "Why would you? Just to visit me?"

"Well, I've also spent about as much time here as I have anywhere else, so why not? Besides, you've been the only person I've really spoken to in ten years. The parole boards don't count, because they're paid to listen, and it's not like I had any visitors."

"Girl, you spent ten years in prison and you're still all mushy," Ginger said, but she looked pleased. "So…? What kind of life do you want to have? You'll be able to make decisions like those again."

"What kind of life do I want to _have?_" I repeated. In all honesty, I hadn't thought about it. I hadn't even wnated to. But I wanted nothing more than to see everyone who had helped to put me here in as much pain as I'd felt, knowing I'd never see my mother again and couldn't even go to her funeral. But something that had once been a part of me was missing. I didn't really want to inflict pain on anyone; it was why I was here. And I certainly deserved to be behind bars for the rest of my life. I'd done horrible things with a smile on my face. I'd killed people and tortured many more without the slightest care for their pain, their innocence, their families—and I'd done it all because it made me _happy_. One can't get much more twisted and evil than that.

"Well, I don't want to hurt anyone," I began, "because I did enough of that in the past. And I enjoyed it. I don't think I deserve to be let free. What if whatever made me do all that stuff ten years ago happens again?"

Ginger was watching me. Her ever-amused expression had taken on one of seriousness, an expression that was rare for her. "Dahlia, do you consider yourself sane? You might not have been drunk or high ten years ago, but something was obviously not right. Maybe whatever it was is gone. Maybe it was your mother. Maybe it was living in the same house with the demanding, living product of your mother's unfaithfulness to your dead father. It could have been anything. But ten years can change a lot. How about right now? Do you feel like you should be hurting someone right now?"

"No, but then again, everyone knows I could, which is why there are forty men with guns standing around."

"Not just for you. There isn't much I can do here, but there are ninety-eight other women out here who have proven themselves capable of hurting someone. The men with guns know all of us have crossed the line in the past that separates us, or so they hope, from the rest of humanity. We're all scum to them, but only because they're afraid that they also could cross a line someday."

"Wasn't it you who said that the line was invisible?" I couldn't quite remember, but the prison made us all attend weekly meetings. There was a shocking amount for us to talk about, though once we were in our cells we were all strangers to each other once more. "Something about how you never see yourself crossing the line until you have and everyone reacts?"

"Yes, but most people know when they cross that line, even if they won't admit to it. I knew when I was paid to lure pretty young girls to the parties that I was doing something illegal. I knew that being caught would result in jail time. Did I care? Of course not. I was paid enough per girl I could bring that I would have done backward somersaults naked if it meant being paid. Ten years ago," she added, after a hesitant silence, "didn't you think about what would happen if you got caught? Because when I was doing illegal things, I was aware of the risk. I just didn't care."

I tried to think back, but a lot of my past had become hazy over the years. I knew it had been perfectly clear, and that everything had seemed reasonable to me at the time, but now, all I could really remember was my last day of freedom—part of it, anyway. I remembered running and tripping through the forest, desperate to get away. My last chance at freedom and victory were closer with every step. Little did I know that every single step I took brought me one closer to multiple days in court and a decade of waiting for freedom.

"I don't know. I just can't remember. All I know is that everything seemed reasonable to me at the time. I didn't ever even think about getting caught. All that mattered to me was that everyone who had ever hurt me was punished for it and that they knew who did it."

"How did that Claudia girl you mentioned hurt you? She was just a teenager, wasn't she?"

"Oh, her. Yeah, she was just some chick my sister hired to watch the brat while she went and studied. That was the only time she really had to herself," I added reflectively, almost enjoying the swell of emotion thinking about it brought on. "She was just supposed to be the bait to lure my sister in. But one again, all Bobbi cared about was Kerry, otherwise she'd have come looking for Claudia and everything would have worked out perfectly for me. But because she was too responsible to play hero at the expense of Kerry learning to tie her shoes, I ended up here and she's still out there somewhere, probably still playing house with the children."

Ginger shook her head slowly. "That's one thing I never understood. What kind of seventeen-year-old would do that? And not act like she deserves a lot of credit? From what I hear she 'played hero' every day and 'played it down' like it was nothing?"

"Just like a typical pain-in-the-ass superhero stereotype. But she didn't do a lot of playing," I added. "Just work."

Ginger nodded. I'd told her everything, and she hadn't ever shied away from me. But I found her strange sometimes; she was good with giving advice but sometimes didn't speak even when I obviously was asking for her advice; it was her way of saying I should figure something out on my own. She was doing this right then, but I didn't know why, since I didn't remember asking for her advice.

"You know, maybe you should forget all about the people you knew ten years ago," she finally said, breaking the silence. "Any of them could have been your influence, and now that you've spent so much time away for…well, everything…it might be even more strained between you. You could have a totally fresh start once you're cleared. You could go somewhere where nobody knows you. Somewhere you can make good friends and have a good job."

"I don't know…I've never really been a city person," I replied, and gestured to the fence. "Chicago is too big for me. I've always liked the idea of a smaller town; a mountainous forest or a farm-filled valley…somewhere I can be totally anonymous. I know I always wanted attention…and I think we all do, sometimes, in some ways…but I think I just want to disappear and be someone people have to look at a name tag to be able to call me by name."

"What kind of job do you think would provide anonymity like that?"

"Maybe a roadside gas station alongside a highway." I shrugged. Such places were common enough in movies. "You know, with big, rusty iron letters spelling out the word 'Diner' stuck into massive cement blocks. A place without any other name."

"You must have been bored," Ginger replied appraisingly, leaning back as if she was surprised with me. "Reading _Fearless_, weren't you?"

"I was fifteen!" I said defensively, surprised. "Anyway, how did _you_ know about it?"

Ginger snorted. "One of the girls I brought to my boss had a book in her pack. I always remembered the name because it seemed so ironic that in our situation, in _her_ situation, she'd been carrying a book with a series title relating to being without fear. And in our situation, 'fear' was about all anyone was allowed to keep."

"They wanted people to be afraid?" I asked, as the bell trilled and we were all herded back inside as though we'd never gone through the process before.

"Fear is a good motivator. It also works like respect, in a way. People who feared my boss, for example, would do anything he wanted. So it's easily mistaken for respect. It also kept people from rebelling or telling anyone else, which was also better for everyone."

"In what way?"

"When the boss was pleased, he was pleasant. When he was unhappy, he made sure everyone else was, too. And he had some very solid methods for making people unhappy."

Ginger glanced at me as we entered the dark, cool confines of the building. "Not every story you heard here has a happy ending, Dahl. Make sure yours is different."

. . . .

In my new room, which is what our cells were called in a low-security setting, I was busily thinking over Ginger's words as I made my bed. My room wasn't particularly big, but I had a bed, a window—bigger than my other one, but still covered in bars—and a door. The door had a small window with mesh between the panes of glass, and could be locked from the hall—but it was nice enough. The window opened, though not far, and I was pleased to see that my toilet had actual water. And a sink, with soap and a towel. It was luxurious compared to my former cell. I was also going to have more freedom than I had previously, and, recalling Ginger's words, and knowing she was still in a place she'd likely never leave, I wanted it all to count.

I was going to spend more time than I'd like at 'meetings' with other people, and occasionally, we'd all go on supervised 'outings.' We'd also each have an 'allowance,' and we could buy things. I could hardly wait to have a piece of white chocolate melting in my mouth. Or to have one of those big, soft M&M/chocolate chip cookies and a tall, cold glass of fresh milk.

I really wanted to make sure every second counted. I was being given a second chance to be human—to have a shower every day; to walk to the mall; to earn money; to talk with people who hadn't been to jail—and I didn't want to screw it up. Ginger had, as the adult in our friendship, started me thinking about necessities; things my mother and then the taxpayers had provided me with for a decade. Shelter, food, clothes, furniture—if I ever got out of the low-security system, I could buy all of those things for myself. The prospect was exciting.

But I could also feel something else, something deeper, darker, and far too familiar for my liking lurking just below the bubbling optimism. It was the metallic smell of blood; the icy satisfaction of revenge; the deafening thump of my own heartbeat as others slowed and stopped. The chill of adrenaline; the thrill of risks. It was whatever had made me do everything that had landed me a jail cell in the first place. Whatever it was hadn't left; and it hadn't been triggered by anyone I knew. I didn't know anyone here. It was a part of me; a hidden part that could lie dormant when it pleased and surface whenever it felt the need. It had hidden when I was paying for the past, and now that I was about to be released, it wanted to be released as well.

Part of me, probably the part that wanted a fresh, clean, good start, wanted to cry. Another part of me felt like laughing, in the ridiculously overdone way villains did in superhero cartoons. Half of me felt victorious and free and strong, and the other half felt weak and bitter and evil. And I didn't know which half of me was stronger. Which side would win? Which would control me? I knew I couldn't win a dominance battle against the evil half; I hadn't tried, but I knew it was strong. But maybe I could _accept_ that other half, the half that wanted peace.

Or maybe I was truly crazy and belonged here. But I couldn't say that to the guards. There was a third part of me; an animalistic air-breather that surfaced for air more than the other parts of me; and it needed freedom. And even the "good" part of me knew I needed freedom.

Yes, I was crazy. I belonged here; even I knew that much. But I couldn't say so; three different parts of me wouldn't let me. And so I was going to be free.

* * *

**Author's Note: I have no idea if this chapter made any sense to any of you…I struggled a lot with this one, obviously. The next Dahlia chapters should be better, since it won't be like a 're-introduction' to her insanity. Please review! (And thank you to everyone who already has!) :D**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"What am I going to wear?" I was staring into my closet, at rows of clothes and shoes, and wishing suddenly that I'd picked up the cute sea-foam green chiffon skirt I'd seen at the mall that day. "I have to meet Mallory at the café in half an hour!"

"Don't panic," sixteen-year-old Rachel Bryant assured me. "You won't go naked."

Rachel was the teenager Mr. Kipell had hired to work the weekend shifts at the bookstore. However, since our shifts now conflicted (Rachel worked Friday nights, which was a new shift Kipell had implemented because the mall was now open later) we had gotten to talking and found that, despite an age difference, we had quite a bit in common. One thing I loved about Rachel was that she'd only been six when my life was falling apart, so she didn't remember anything about me on the News. And because Ashley had decided to go out with a boy she had a 'crush' on, Rachel was helping me decide on an outfit.

Rachel wasn't quite the kind of teenager you'd expect to work in a bookstore, or to want to help her 'old' co-worker decide on an outfit for what seemed like a no-big-deal meeting with a friend I hadn't seen in years. She had short, cropped black hair (streaked with red highlights) that hung unevenly to her chin in pointed spikes, and very pale skin that looked even paler with her dark hair and black eyeliner. Even her lips were a dark red color. She was pretty, but she was always wearing mesh leggings and black miniskirts and black tank tops with mesh sleeves. Not a bad look, for a teen. But add to it the motorcycle boots and various facial/ear piercings, as well as the bellybutton ring her short shirts always showed off, and she looked exactly like the kind of person you'd expect to be hiding in the shadows and not showing any interest in anything.

"Good to know," I said, as Rachel pulled a dark, shimmery blue tank top off of a hanger and examined it critically.

"Do you have any white skirts? Oh, and what's Mallory like? Knowing how she'll look will probably help you decide how to dress."

"Well, we're going to be sitting in a café that serves eggs for breakfast and chili for dinner, so she'll probably go casual. However, since this is Mallory we're talking about, she might be wearing a sparkly, oversized unicorn T-shirt and stirrup leggings or something." Exactly what I'd have worn at thirteen—in fact, for most of my thirteenth year, I wore leggings and big T-shirts. And Mallory had worn plenty of sparkly unicorn shirts and shirts with horses on them. Maybe she'd outgrown that, but who knew? She'd always been talking about how she wanted to be 'cool' and how unfair her parents were, so she dressed as wildly as she could while trying to look mature. The result usually meant she was copying my outfits and hairstyles.

Rachel looked skeptical. "Sparkly unicorn T-shirts? And people let her baby-sit?"

I shrugged, but I couldn't hide a smile. "Well, as cool as she wanted to be, the only cool thing she really ever did was decide to go to boarding school. Not because we all wanted to be rid of her, but it was a big decision. And although she did it to escape the kids in public school who were teasing her, it was the right thing to do. She did much better at Riverbend, I guess."

"Riverbend Hall?" Rachel looked up, surprised. "The one just outside of Easton?"

My geography had never improved much, but I did know that Mallory's school had been about twenty miles away from Stockbridge, which was in Massachusetts. And Mallory had mentioned 'Easton' as being a place her class would take field trips to in a letter. I nodded.

"My oldest stepsister sister went there. Alexis DeCamp," Rachel added. "You know, I think she mentioned a Mallory once or twice."

"I think Mallory mentioned an Alexis," I commented. "I don't know. She was eleven then, and ten years have passed…how about black sandals?"

"Ten years…that's a long time, so she must have changed. I wouldn't wear the black sandals; wear white or blue," Rachel continued, rummaging through the bottom of my closet. "Why didn't you write when she was away? Even Alexis wrote to me, and I was just a kid."

"I've told you about the BSC, right?" (Rachel nodded.) "Well, with baby-sitting and so on, we each had our own groups of friends and problems." (I didn't add that Mallory's biggest problem at Riverbend had been Alexis, since Rachel was her sister.) "We just lost touch."

It had been an entire week since Dahlia had been transferred to her new home. I was feeling only slightly comfortable with her still under supervision. I hadn't let Rachel in on the fact that I was the same Claudia from the News (they hadn't, thankfully, shown a picture of me) and that the 'Ashley' the reporters kept mentioning was actually my roommate.

"It's hard to believe that such a big group of friends could just 'lose touch' like that, if you were all as close as you claim." Rachel straightened up and glanced at me, holding out a pair of navy-blue sandals. "These would look better with pink or yellow, but the shimmery blue should look great with these if you wear a white skirt."

I thanked Rachel and changed hurriedly, and when I came out, she looked me over and gave me a thumbs-up sign. "Perfect. You'll be late," she added. "Better hurry."

I hailed a cab and we dropped Rachel off at the mall so she could work her shift. It was Saturday, and I was pleased to realize as we approached the café that I was actually excited about meeting Mallory. I felt a little like a kid who was going to school for the first time. The only real difference was that I'd known Mallory in the past—though I hadn't seen her in a long time, so who knew if she still looked and acted the same way she had as a pre-teenager?

I was nervous, too, though. Mallory had always been kind of nosy, so if she'd seen the broadcasts when she was twelve, would she want to talk about it? I hoped not.

We'd agreed to meet at the café (which was sandwiched between a bookstore and a walk-in medical clinic on the corner of an industrial area on the inner outskirts of Chicago) at twelve. I was there at eleven-fifty. I seated myself on one of the slightly battered couches and ordered a latte, which is about the only time I ever drink coffee. I think it tastes horrible if you don't have the fancy stuff. Mallory arrived before my latte did.

I didn't see her until she sat down across from me, and even then, it took a moment for me to recognize her. She'd been two years younger than I had been when we knew each other, so she'd naturally been shorter. But now it looked as though she'd surpassed me in height. She was still slightly pale, but her freckles and braces were gone. Her huge, many glasses had been replaced by a feminine, sleek silver frame. Her fuzzy, wild red hair was still red, but it was now straight and shiny. It had been cut straight at her shoulders, but her bangs were cut to cross over her forehead, swept to the left and tucked behind an ear pierced three times. Black hoops hung from each hole, and against a tight white T-shirt with black pop-art style babies printed on the front, suited her. She was wearing tight black jeans and black-and-white sneakers. She wasn't chubby anymore, but she wasn't particularly slender. She was prettier now than before, but I doubted she saw herself that way. She was, as she often did as a kid, carrying a spiral notepad and pen.

The sight of them made my stomach tighten. This looked more like an interview than a casual meeting of two nostalgic old friends.

But she kept them at her side, and for an hour, over steaming cups of foamy, sweet coffee and in an atmosphere of dark red and shiny gold that almost rivaled the Battista home, all we could talk about was the past. Old friends, old jobs, old happenings—and as we walked out, all we could talk about was where everyone was now. Nobody had heard from Dawn in years, and Mallory hadn't even kept in touch with Jessi, which was a surprise. Then again, if everything else had changed, why shouldn't that?

"Like an abandoned garden," Mallory said suddenly. "That's what all of this feels like. Just dirt. All the flowers are gone."

I knew what she meant. This reunion wasn't very much like I'd always pictured reunions to be. Even so, I had to look sharply at her. It was involuntary, and Mallory didn't seem to notice. But Bobbi and I had been talking only barely more than a week earlier about how Dahlia wasn't much like a flower at all; she was more dead than lively. And now Mallory was saying it, except she was talking about the remains of the BSC. I hoped.

"So…you live in Chicago?" Mallory glanced around before looking at me. "I never pictured it like this. This looks more like the outskirts of Stoneybrook."

We were walking uphill when she said it, and as we reached the top, I gestured to Mallory. The city stretched out before us, an endless maze of homes and businesses in a colorful assortment of buildings, most of them tall but quite a few smaller, each like part of a city model. The sun was blinding on the starchy, dry colors of the buildings, and glowing in the windows.

"Okay, that looks more like it," Mallory admitted. She shielded her eyes and squinted. "You live in an apartment, right? Isn't living in a city expensive?"

Typical small-town girl logic. "Somewhat, but the jobs pay higher in cities than in towns. Besides, having roommates can make everything better, or worse, depending on how compatible the two are." Ashley and I used to be far more conflicting than we were now, but in one week, that had changed. We were now relying on each other for more than help with shelter and food.

"Cool." Mallory wasn't paying attention anymore. She was looking around, like she expected a killer to leap at us from the shadows. She looked slightly nervous, but more like she was trying to form a question she wasn't sure she should ask. Finally, she just gave me a tight smile.

"How about we go back to my apartment for a while?" I suggested, knowing that whatever was bothering her was probably mostly because she was in a strange city and the only person she knew was someone she'd been 'kind of friends' with for a year, ten years earlier. "The sun is starting to give me a headache."

Mallory didn't make a joke about my words. "Okay, cool." She followed me down the street to the bus stop (I try not to take a taxi more than once a day) and boarded behind me silently. After a few minutes, I just had to say something. I'd picked up a new habit; I couldn't stand silences and would say almost anything to start a conversation or brighten a dull one.

"Do you remember how we used to describe each other?" I asked, when we were settled into the living room with cups of milk and a plate of fudge-coated mint cookies. "It was always the same, wasn't it?"

Mallory looked confused. "Yeah, but people don't change much in one year."

_Ha! People can change in seconds! All it takes is one second and everything can be different._ I didn't say it out loud, though, and it didn't matter. Mallory was sitting back, looking at me, and I knew then that things were about to change; that she was about to say something that could possibly ruin the mood and any trust we'd garnered in our reunion.

"Claudia…can I ask you a few questions about the last ten years?" Her voice was hesitant, and I found myself unable to look away for a moment. She suddenly looked a lot like the eleven-year-old who had once started rumors amongst her friends in the BSC because she had mononucleosis and wanted us all to be better off, even if it meant being without her. Staring into brown eyes that had once looked at my earrings jealously and at me oddly because I'd just named a painting, I felt like I was looking at the child Mallory, someone I'd trusted even though we hadn't been particularly close.

"Okay," I said, even though I knew she was about to ask questions I'd hoped she wouldn't even think about asking.

"Um…where's Janine? And why do you live in Chicago?"

Okay. That wasn't so bad. "Janine grew up and moved out," I answered, "because our parents didn't approve of her boyfriend." Something like that. "And when my parents couldn't agree on anything, they decided a change of place might help us all. I think Mom also wanted to get away from the memories of her sister's miscarriage and Mimi's death."

Mallory nodded sagely, but she was quiet for a moment. "How about the BSC? How did it fall apart?"

Another easy question. Maybe she didn't know anything about it, after all. "You left," I began, "which seemed to take the wind right out of Jessi's sails. Losing the two of you seemed to strain everything else, since you took on so many of the daytime jobs to free up the older sitters for nights. Dawn and Mary Anne moved away with their family. They tried recovering after the fire, but staying in Stoneybrook was just too hard for them, I guess. Stacey died," I added, getting it over with. "Shannon and Logan saw their escape and took it. Kristy and I tried to keep going for a while, but it was too hard, taking on all those jobs and knowing that so many of us weren't there. Kristy finally just gave up. She was really depressed," I added reflectively."

"It's hard to imagine Kristy depressed."

"Not for me. She…her grades sank, she stopped caring about the club…it was awful. It was like looking at a ghost." I didn't mention that she might have poisoned the dog treats I once borrowed from her. It was something that danced along the edge of bigger secrets.

Mallory nodded, but I could see that she wasn't convinced. For a moment, it was as if we were a decade younger and waiting for other club members to arrive in my room. We were in my space and I'd provided snacks, but nobody was coming. This wasn't a BSC meeting.

"Okay. I…um, I don't know how to say this." Mallory was avoiding my eyes, her own cast down to stare at her cookie. "It's…what happened? Ten years ago they mentioned you on the News," she blurted, "and I only saw a little of it when I was seeing the dean in Riverbend."

Oh, here we go. Just when I was starting to think she knew nothing about it. Little did I know she knew much more than she was letting on.

I sighed, unsure of what to do. I knew she was asking as a friend, someone who was concerned and curious and probably assuming I'd want to talk about it, since they'd had my face on the News, but what if she was just interested in the details and asked painful questions? Not that there were any soothing questions to ask about this; but she was bound to hit a nerve if we were going to talk about this. And what was with the notepad? She was fiddling with it as she waited for me to either answer her question or tell her I didn't want to walk about it.

"I…it all started when I took on a baby-sitting job for a new family after the club disbanded," I began, starting hesitantly and finding it slightly easier as details and memories resurfaced. Knowing I couldn't tell her the whole truth (after all, I barely knew Mallory now; who knew who she was?) I tried to think ahead so I could keep myself from saying anything that we wouldn't want anyone else to know. "I thought the family was odd, but I was…kidnapped," I said. "That's why I was on the News."

Through the shock evident in Mallory's eyes, I could see something else—something I didn't like. A hunger for more detail, for the details I wasn't saying. It was like she knew there was more I wasn't about to say. I also saw a simple emotion; and it wasn't the typical reaction one might expect from a friend who had just heard a tragic and true (though narrowed-down version) of someone's past. It was impatience, as though I was supposed to be saying something else.

"Was she connected to the family you thought was odd?" Mallory asked, and although it was the kind of question my any of my friends might've asked when we were younger, I had the feeling that this wasn't quite a BSC-stemmed question of curiosity. I was feeling more and more uncomfortable with every second, and Mallory didn't look as concerned as a friend might.

"I don't know," I lied. But I wasn't paying attention to my answer. Mallory had just said something—and it wasn't right. _"Was she connected to the family you thought was odd?"_ Nothing weird about that, except that I hadn't mentioned that my kidnapper had been female.

I stood up, trying to shake off the feeling of paranoia and anger that was threatening to overwhelm me, and Mallory stood, too. But she didn't speak.

I walked over to her, wishing the words I wanted to say would make enough sense to come out of my mouth as something other than a mess of emotional diarrhea. We embraced for a moment, mostly because if we'd been friends like we'd been as kids, it was exactly what we'd have been doing. But I had picked up on a few tips and tricks from days of more extreme paranoia, and I had to make sure Mallory wasn't the 'new and improved' person I was afraid she was.

I felt it as soon as we touched. The thin, almost flat piece of technology that proved Mallory wasn't herself. I moved quickly, before Mallory could react, and ripped the wire and electronic recorder from her skin. She yelped and I stepped back a few times, staring at the electronics in my hands. She'd never intended to write down any information she got from me; she was recording it all. The wire had been wrapped around her chest and back several times, ensuring stability, but the box itself had been tucked between her breasts, a place it wouldn't be noticed because the material of a shirt, the size of even small breasts and the way every bra worked concealed the spy-suited technology easily.

Mallory rubbed at her skin, looking abashed. And hurt. I hoped I'd taken skin off when the tape holding the wire and recording device pulled away. She didn't apologize, though; she stood there defiantly, daring me to make the first move and prove myself weaker.

No problem. I didn't feel weak at all. I dropped the device into Ashley's filing cabinet pushed the door closed with my thigh, keeping my eyes on Mallory and knowing the cabinet would lock automatically. Only Ashley had a key for it, and Mallory didn't attempt to stop me.

"For what it's worth, I really did want to talk to you," Mallory began, but her eyes had lost the 'innocent purity' façade and were now watching me with the cold, disinterested, calculating eyes of an adult. She had planned this; she had used me. She wasn't a friend.

"For what it's worth, I hope you end up in hell." I was secretly pleased when she winced at the word, and I inwardly smirked at the thought that even if she'd matured somewhat, she was still naïve and awkward.

I punched her. I didn't care if she was recording me; I didn't care if it looked perverted. She was unconscious, and I waited a moment to steady my nerves and calm down enough not to punch her again. I removed her clothes and made sure she'd only been wearing the one device. I redressed her and, thankful that we lived in a fairly low-maintenance apartment building with security cameras that hadn't worked in thirty years, dragged Mallory's unconscious figure to the stairs and left her, propped into a sitting position, at the top.

I was slowly getting the idea. I couldn't trust anyone; not even old friends. Who knew if any of them were even still alive? For all I knew, Dahlia's followers had already gotten to each of my former friends—aside from Mallory, unfortunately—and they were all dead. If this kept up, I was going to be spending every minute out of work in my room, hiding from the world.

* * *

**Author's Note: For those who read 'Accusations,' I mentioned that Dawn Schafer had gotten involved with Wyeth…details are in the fifteenth chapter for anyone who needs refreshment on that. I don't know yet about the others…what happened to them. Anyway, sorry this took so long! Life often gets in the way of writing this. But I finally have my books, so updates may vary again; I'll try to have at least one chapter up every week! Hopefully more, but if not, at LEAST one…and a big thanks to all who read and review!**

And let me know if you are insulted by words like 'hell.' I don't use much coarse language, but there usually is some... :P


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

I flopped listlessly into the purple beanbag chair on the porch under Ashley's bedroom window and groaned. Ashley, who was planting seeds in a plastic pot for pink and white azalea flowers in her windowsill, flinched and sprayed me with the water bottle at her side.

It felt good. It was another hot day.

"Being depressed won't help," Ashley said, mostly because we'd already exhausted every other topic of conversation and had gone back to good-natured bickering. We'd been avoiding the subject of Mallory's "treason" since I'd told her about it, and barely twenty-four hours had passed.

"Neither does planting four hundred thousand seeds."

Ashley scowled. "I don't exactly have the money for that many seeds. And anyway, I have to do something. You can't do much in an apartment, but you can keep plants. And I can't stop thinking that if even your oldest friends can be after you for the sake of the story, who knows who else is? We can't trust anyone but each other."

"And Bobbi."

"I'm surprised you can go see her as much as you do and call her a friend. You don't talk as much now that she's got kids, and anyway, it's just like looking at Dahlia. They have the same face, the same voice. It's freaky."

"They're nothing alike," I replied. "They're identical in appearance but they couldn't be more different in every other way. Dahlia's eyes look…dead and cold and careless. Bobbi's look human and warm and caring."

Ashley shuddered and sprayed me again with the water. "It's still totally freaky. All I can see when I look at your 'friend' is Dahlia. Her eyes, her hair. It's like she never aged." She removed the cap from the bottle and poured several drops into each finger-hole in the planter, which she then covered with dirt. It was an interesting way to do it; at least then she knew where to water.

I shrugged. To me, Bobbi was one of the reasons words like "perfection" were still used. So her life had been far from perfect, but she had responded perfectly. When her mother couldn't/wouldn't stay at home to help, Bobbi became the mother. When her sister went crazy and needed real help, Bobbi cared for her sister and her friends. She looked perfect, too, at least to me. And she was always there for me. Dahlia was none of those things. To think they were even related was almost an insult.

"I'm supposed to go over there tonight and help Kerry with her book report," I remembered. "She's reading _The Outsiders _and she wants some input from someone who hasn't read the book to death. She said her mother read it for fun even after she was done the book report."

Ashley shrugged, not even bothering to pretend she was listening. I was just babbling, and anyway, we both knew we weren't thinking much about gardening and school assignments.

. . . .

"Aaah!"

I jerked back in surprise. Kerry's primal yelp of frustration had been my greeting when she flung open her bedroom door in answer to my knock.

She grinned, but there was no happiness behind it. "Sorry. I just don't get why Ponyboy and the other guys in the book can speak without proper English when they're older than I am and yet I still have to learn about adverbs and pronouns."

I laughed. "I thought exactly the same thing when I read it. _To Kill A Mockingbird_ was even worse. What page are you on?"

I sat down with Kerry at her desk, and I could hear Bobbi and her family several rooms away. I couldn't help but wonder if Kerry ever felt slightly left-out, like she didn't belong. Kerry didn't explain; simply handing me a tattered copy of the five-decade old book and pulling open the top drawer of her desk. "Rice Krispies square? Kit-Kat? M&M's?"

"Whatever you have," I replied. I'd need it to get through the book again. It had been a good book, but at the time, all I really paid attention to was the fact that the wise and wonderful author didn't bother to use correct English (on purpose) but I had to read it and analyze it, using perfect English myself. Kerry grinned and pulled out packages of M&Ms, Smarties, Reese Cups, a small bag of sour cream and onion chips, Rice Krispies treats, and several Kit-Kats.

"You just keep a candy aisle in your desk?" I asked. "When I was your age, I had to hide mine a lot better than that!"

"Bobbi always keeps candy in the house," Kerry explained. "I just keep a personal stash so even if the twins eat all the Wagon Wheels and Twinkies, I don't have to wait until we can get to the store." She hesitated. "You know, I've already read this book. I even liked it. But the work I have to do is so stupid. 'Imagine you are Ponyboy Curtis,'" she read from her notebook. 'Write a one-page journal entry from his perspective on the relationship between him and any of his friends or about the rivalry between the two gangs.'"

Kerry glanced at me. "Why bother? The book is supposed to be good enough for us to work with, right? That's why it was assigned. Over-analyzing it just ruins it."

We sat together for an hour, snacking and working. Kerry worked, actually; I think I was really only there because she was lonely. Despite Kerry's music, some strange, never-ending piano/guitar instrumental with a thunder and rain background, we could still hear Bobbi, Michael, and their daughters laughing in another room. I started wondering more seriously if Kerry, despite being adored by the twins and Bobbi's closest non-progeny family member (even Michael seemed distanced to me) felt like some kind of useless addition to the family. Bobbi had real daughters now, and of course, she had a husband. Kerry wasn't really related to the twins, or to David, and Bobbi had always been Kerry's only real family, and Kerry had (for a long time) been Bobbi's only priority. Things had changed. Did Kerry feel like the twins had taken her place, or that she was no longer necessary or important? I didn't really want to ask, now that she was working, but I had to wonder. I pushed an entire Reese cup into my mouth to keep from asking.

To keep busy as Kerry alternated between reading and writing, I leaned back in my chair and my mind wandered instantly to thoughts I'd been avoiding. My parents. I'd never thought about leaving them; about leaving home. Then again, I'd never pictured the BSC as anything but perfect and my life as anywhere but in Stoneybrook, and all of that had changed. Still, the last few months between my parents and I hadn't been easy, although it was now easier to forget about it. I didn't visit often, and they didn't call. Our familial bonds had been stretched almost to the breaking point, and they hadn't yet been relaxed.

_Breakfast wasn't typically anything to get worked up about in the Kishi house. Oh, sure, Mom and Dad and Janine would all have eggs and cereal and toast, and I'd be the only one with a Pizza Pop and a glass of chocolate milk. They'd all look at me like I was eating out of the garbage can and I'd watch as each of my family members added a dainty glob of butter to their pancakes and several drops of syrup to each corner of the waffle. It was never anything special until Janine the Genius left, at which point the spotlight that had been hers for years had no young Kishi to focus on. Reluctantly, it fell to me. I'd never known how much I appreciated Janine hogging the spotlight until it was all mine._

_"I got an A in History," I'd announce hesitantly._

_"And a D in English," my mother would add tonelessly. For a little while, they each pretended to care. They'd take turns helping me with my homework and asking me how my day was. Then, it became 'We're busy,' when it came to checking my homework and a disinterested 'Mm-hmm' when it came to my grades. They stopped caring. They gave up on me. I tried my best despite that. I wanted to live up to the great Janine Kishi, but I couldn't. I was an artist, not a mathematician or a scientist or a historian. I was stupid, not even worth their energy._

_I bought them Mother's/Father's Day gifts that received little more than a polite nod. I brought home B's and C's for which I was given a simple 'Study harder.' I did the dishes, swept the floor, made small talk, cleaned the bathroom, and took phone messages. I was still Claudia Kishi. But my parents didn't care. They were so wrapped up in the loss of the only Kishi with any potential that I was nothing more than the failed daughter, the progeny of wasted time and energy. After a while, I got the hint. I could sell a piece of artwork for a million dollars and be nothing more to them than the daughter without a useful brain. I stopped trying, and they didn't bother to encourage me. We didn't even argue; they didn't care and I was exhausted from trying to earn the love that they had always shown me because Janine was there for them to rely on as someone to prove that they were good parents, that their offspring would amount to something in the world. When I moved out, I doubted sincerely that they even noticed I wasn't there._

"Claudia?" Kerry asked, interrupting my musings and looking amused. "Are you in there?"

"Yes. Sorry," I added. "Did you need something?"

"No, I'm done," she said, slowly, as though she'd already said it. "For tonight, anyway."

"Oh. Okay," I said, standing. "Good girl," I added, feeling a little like I was rewarding a puppy for learning to pee outside. She gave me another amused glance.

"You know, you're the first person to bother with me in weeks," Kerry said, closing her books and avoiding my gaze, putting her books back into her knapsack. "Bobbi's busy with the twins and Michael hates my guts." Her voice cracked as she spoke.

I sat down again. "What do you mean?"

"I'm just leftovers from some broken home he knows almost nothing about because Bobbi and I don't talk about it, and I'm just like a third wheel when it comes to affection distribution," Kerry said, her voice cold. "He hates me. I'm just another mouth to feed. He hates that I'm old enough for an allowance when his own kids aren't yet getting one, and that Bobbi and I are closer than he is with her, and that I'm a bigger part of Bobbi's mysterious past than he was. He's jealous of me and all I can think is, if you want my past, take it! I don't _want_ it!"

I leaned over and hugged her as her voice cracked again. She leaned her head on my shoulder, trying to keep herself from crying. "I just don't get why he hates me. I know he married Bobbi because she's rich, and she doesn't really believe me about that. She's so idealistic that she thinks true love would conquer all, including greed. She's not stupid, just…naïve, I guess. And I'm being harassed by the other kids at school, and I just…wish I wasn't part of this family. And not in that lame and stupid way everyone expects teens to feel."

For a few moments, just like when she was three years old, I held her and patted her back, feeling her heartbeat and her convulsive sobs. She calmed down quickly though, appearing exhausted. She leaned back, again avoiding my eyes. We sat in silence for a little while, and Kerry pulled her legs up and hugged them, eyes closed, breathing returning slowly to normal.

"Does Bobbi know you feel this way?" I asked, to which Kerry snorted, quickly masking her reaction with a sip of Pepsi.

"Feel what way? Like a petulant child pitted against a new stepfather? Like a jealous little girl adjusting to stepsiblings?" Kerry sniffled. "I'd rather not. Bobbi's my sister, and she's got enough problems trying to deal with all the lab rats at work and the twins." She paused, and if on cue, both girls shrieked in delight, a sound heard easily through Kerry's closed door and several walls. "I don't want to be the squeaky wheel, but if it's the only way to get the grease, I might have to be. I know raising twins isn't just one trip to the park…it's many. And I know Bobbi still cares about me. Still, things aren't the same as they used to be, and I don't like change."

"Nobody does," I said, when she was silent for a few moments. "Change is inevitable but it's easier to face together."

"I know. I'll talk to her eventually," Kerry added, wiping her face with her sleeve. "I just…I guess I needed someone to talk to. I haven't been able to talk to any of my friends for a while now; Amy's mom said 'we needed our space' and Renee's mother won't let her anywhere near me." She sighed. "I just wish Dahlia would die so everything could just go back to the way it was a month ago. Bobbi's been tense, so Michael's on edge, and he keeps asking me what happened, and he sounds just like all the other curious people, and I hate him! I wish he'd just forget it and stop bothering me. I can take it when strangers ask; they're people I'll probably never see again so who cares? But I come home to get away from those people, and one of the people who should be trying to understand that I don't want to talk about it won't let up."

. . . .

In bed that night, wearing my thinnest shorts and a bra, nothing else, I lay awake. I was too wound up to sleep, and it was too hot anyway. I was lying on my blanket, the fan aimed at me and on full blast, and my mind was on everything but the heat and the need to sleep. It seemed I was going to fall back into a pattern of stressing about the need to sleep more than actually sleeping.

It felt strange to feel like I was back in a situation about as stressful as I'd been in at thirteen, and yet it was Kerry suffering more than I was. Maybe stress always seemed to attack teenagers first. In any case, I wasn't thinking much about work or the heat or my growling stomach; I was thinking about Kerry and her dilemma.

And the fact that it was an odd time of night for the neighbors to be discussing the reproductive system.

But I couldn't help but also think about my parents. I was an adult now, and maybe it was time to take control and get them to realize that I was no longer just the failed attempt at fame. Then again, why should I be the only one to make an effort? I'd tried for years to gain some kind of approval; a nod or a smile or even just a look in my direction that wasn't laced with disappointment.

And what if they'd seen the news of Dahlia's release into a lower-security setting? Did they care that I was in potential danger, or was it best for the world if one more artist wannabe just didn't try fitting in with the geniuses who invented pencils and computers? Did they know I was thinking about making up with them? Did they ever wonder about me, and wish I still lived with them? Did they want to call and fix everything like they might have if I was a child, or was it up to me (in their opinions) to apologize now that I was an adult?

The only problem with that was, I had nothing to apologize for. So I wasn't interested in nuclear atomic sciences. So I couldn't remember the differences between sedimentary and igneous rocks. So I couldn't care less about whole numbers and short vowel sounds. I mean, none of it even made sense to me! And who really cared if it did? What were there, half numbers? And how could a vowel sound short? And why did the denominators have to be in a certain place? Helping Kerry had certainly brought back a flood of my own school-induced frustrations. Except that my parents had practically disowned me for my frustration.

And what would happen to me if my parents continued to refuse me? They'd most likely be polite and formal and seem separated from me, as they had usually been, but it would be worse now. If they hadn't cooled off and gotten over my being true to myself, even after all of these months…or years…they might never. And I doubted I could stand it if that happened. They might not have been perfect parents, but they were _my_ parents, whether they appreciated my one meager talent or not. And I didn't have to take it if they chose not to accept me. I hadn't done anything wrong. Or right, but that was beside the point. If they were going to wish me dead, I wanted to know so I didn't have to spend any more nights lying awake, wondering.

I could call them. One call. That'd be all I needed. If they never wanted to see me again, it'd be better than having left and only thought about them when my guilty conscience bypassed my supposedly important thoughts and sat at the front of my mind and on the tip of my tongue until it decided it was ready to retreat.

Closure. That was what I needed, what I'd wanted and never been quite sure. Now I knew. One single call wouldn't make me look weak, like I wanted to come home, back to the shelter and protected naiveté that defines a minor's life. If anything, it'd make me look even better than my parents, because I was 'mature' enough to contact them first.

Just the thought of finally doing what I'd been putting off, simply because I hadn't known I wanted _and_ needed it, relaxed me enough to sleep.

. . . .

I dialed the once-familiar number and waited. I'd put it off as long as I could, getting up at eight A.M. with good intent and taken a shower, eaten breakfast, made sure it was Sunday so my parents wouldn't be working (it was, so they weren't) and cleaned up the kitchen. I was stalling, and I knew it.

I'd run out of things to clean (Ashley the neat freak saw me cleaning and pretended to faint, but so as not to give the impression of a sense of humor, she added that she'd done a good job of cleaning the day before and that there was no reason for my regimen, effectively ending it) and so there I was, waiting at the phone like a first-grader too scared to enter the classroom.

My mother sounded old and tired when she answered the phone, but despite the obvious signs of sleepiness despite it being ten A.M., it was the same voice that lulled me to sleep as a child. I suddenly felt, despite my reluctance and relatively newfound love of independence, very homesick; I wanted to feel her warm, comforting hugs and her unconditionally loving gaze again.

"Mom?"

* * *

**Author's Note: I'm SO sorry for the wait! I got stuck after 'almost an insult.' :P**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**  
**Ashley**

If you've ever been around someone who was born more than a decade before your own birth, you've probably heard them say something like 'Rubbing salt in a wound.' I used to think it was a stupid saying, because it didn't make any sense to me. But now, with memories of Dahlia resurfacing at every inopportune moment, I didn't see how she could stand to look at the replica of Dahlia and not feel like Dahlia's own soul was staring back.

Maybe it was paranoia, but it felt to me like Dahlia was just…_there_. All the time, watching us, listening to us, laughing at our fear. I couldn't stand to look at Bobbi and see Dahlia's triumphant face, or to be in the same room and hear Dahlia's voice. Claudia didn't understand that. As soon as she'd been freed from our nightmarish captivity, she ran straight to Bobbi's house. How had she not been scared to see Dahlia's face, those eyes, to hear that voice—and so soon after Dahlia's…whatever one could call it. Chaos? Hell? Reign?

"Ashley?"

I flinched. Looking up, I could see that Claudia hadn't noticed. It was Monday, and she almost always leaves for work before I do, especially since her shift starts a lot sooner than mine. (She works at a bookstore. I'm the assistant manager of Chicago's oldest consignment shop.) I was surprised that she was still at home.

"You just got an e-mail from someone named Jacob," she informed me, disappearing into the hallway. I put my book aside (I was reading _World War Three: When and Why_?) and headed for the phone, my mind still deep in the trenches that had once been a golf course.

Jacob is my boyfriend. We don't see each other as often as we used to, and the only reason he'd bothered to e-mail me instead of calling or coming over was because we'd had a fight. He wanted to have more say in what I did with my friends and money, and I was annoyed because, like Logan Bruno, he'd become overbearing and somewhat annoying. (Claudia kept coming home from Bobbi's complaining that 'she didn't understand why Bobbi didn't like Claudia's old friends.' That was how, as Claudia detailed Bobbi's views, I learned of Logan and his similarities to Jake.) Claudia, of course, until her own boyfriend cheated on her, hadn't really had a relationship problem. Now it looked like she and Tobias were through.

I seated myself at the computer as Claudia left, and when I heard the door lock behind her, I turned my attention to the e-mail inbox. Only one new message. I clicked on it, and I instantly sat back. Jacob's letter wasn't long, but I knew right away it wouldn't be a great one. Certainly nothing to hang on to so I could reread it.

Basically, he wanted to break up. '_I need someone who needs me_,' he explained. Apparently, I was too independent. I deleted his message without replying and got ready for work.

. . . .

Running a consignment store is fairly easy once you've got enough practice. Working in one for four years is plenty of practice, to me anyway. If you've never been to a consignment shop and you have a lot of money, I recommend it. People bring you their things and you try to sell them for a cut of the profits. It's like a second-hand store except that everything people bring in is newer and nicer. It sells for more, as well, and the original owner gets money back on it.

Also, I like it because I'm the assistant manager, which means that for five days a week, I work almost entirely alone. I mainly work the cash register and, when something is dropped off, I have to try and evaluate a good price and make sure I add the item to the inventory list, as well as making sure I have the right name and phone number in case the item(s) they brought sell. That was exactly what I was doing on Tuesday afternoon; trying to evaluate a set of diamond earrings that someone had left with me and asked that I made sure it sold.

But I was enjoying myself, happily deciding that the earrings were worth at least four hundred dollars when Jacob walked in, heading straight for me. I didn't notice him, however, until he tapped me on the shoulder. I hadn't even heard the bells over the door ring.

"What do you want?" I asked him, hoping my voice didn't shake as I spoke. In all honesty, I didn't really feel as cold and even as my voice sounded. Jacob was typically a good guy; cute, charming, sweet, and almost always considerate. Funny, too; he could make almost anyone laugh. Just looking at him made me wish everything was as it had been, before he decided he had to control my life. I missed him.

"I want to know why you never wrote back last night," was the reply.

"What was there to say? I _am_ independent. That's just how I am." _And how it's always going to be_, I added silently. "If you want a damsel in distress, go find one. It shouldn't be hard." _Especially since ninety percent of all girls nowadays think boys won't go for them if they aren't meek, submissive and sexually experienced little virgins. Unfortunately, they're somewhat right._

"I never wanted a damsel in distress," Jake replied, his voice slightly louder, and I was glad the shop wasn't actually open yet. "I wanted someone who needed me."

"Well, here's a news flash for you: I don't need someone to tell me what to do. I don't need someone to control my money. If I wanted that, I could spend more time at the bank and buy a planner. But I have both." I hesitated as his face crumpled, and sighed. "Look. I needed you. But not in the way you wanted to be needed. I need someone who is there for me without smothering me."

"I never meant to smother you," Jake said, and hesitated as the first customers stepped in and looked around. He lowered his voice. "I just…felt like you were never being really honest with me. Like you were keeping secrets."

_Of course I was. I'm only almost twenty-five years old, and I was raped and tortured. But I haven't told you or anyone else about that because you'd ask questions._ "I do have secrets, Jake. And I still can't tell you what they are. Did you think telling me not to talk to Claudia would make me open up to you?"

Jake had actually told me not to speak to Claudia anymore. His exact words were more vulgar, but he'd been drunk. I figured he'd sober up and forget all about it. But when he was finally sober and he'd taken a shower, he asked me if I'd started moving my things out. I'd politely (not) told him that he'd either have to find a girl weak enough to do whatever he asked in terms of choosing friends or grow a spine and learn how to socialize. I'd figured he had been hoping that if I had nobody else to talk to, I'd talk to him. That hadn't worked, obviously.

"Yes," he said, but he didn't say anything else.

"Look, I've got work to do," I said, turning back to the clipboard and pretending to work. I'd already documented the earrings, their owner, and the sale price I'd evaluated them at, but I looked busy enough for Jake to, hopefully, let the subject drop.

I felt a cool, smooth metal surface against my temple, and knew immediately that the feeling of dread I'd had when I woke up hadn't been without reason. Jacob had a gun, and it was pressed against my head. What did he want?

I could see in the reflection of a handheld mirror hanging on the wall behind the cash register that the customers, two middle-aged women who had been admiring the window display of summer clothes, were watching, wide-eyed. I didn't move.

Then, without even saying anything, Jacob put the gun back into his jacket and left. That was it; no parting words of intimidation or a 'Dumb (insert rude word here)' in my direction. He didn't even look back as he left.

The two women rushed over to me. One made me sit down and the other called the police. This was the scene the officers found; me sitting on an old, wooden bar-style stool, two women hovering over me, both looking more scared than I felt. I just felt strangely calm, and since nothing had been stolen, the police mainly just asked if I was okay and to make sure I called them if Jacob ever came back. Once the police had left, one of them suggesting I go home and rest, one of the women made an exasperated noise.

"You have to have a bullet embedded in your skull before they take action," she muttered.

"I'm okay," I replied, feeling a little faint. I stood up and headed for the water cooler, steadying my walk by using the counter for support. The women stayed for an hour, even after buying dresses and shorts (I think they bought so much because they felt bad for me) and kept me company. I found out that one of the women, the more friendly one, worked several stores away in a florist's shop, and that the other, who seemed a little older and less talkative, volunteered in a Salvation Army because she'd retired and was bored being at home. I felt a little better when they left, especially as other customers filtered in and the store was soon almost filled. Jake wouldn't dare try pull anything in a place so full of people. I hoped. Then again, he was never quite like people expected; which was really something that drew me to him. If it was the middle of summer, he'd have a hot chocolate. Midwinter, he'd be eating ice-cream. Okay, so a hot chocolate in an air-conditioned house isn't such a big deal, nor is eating frozen desserts while in front of a fireplace. Still, he had been full of surprises. Like the week I spent on the couch because PMS was acting up and I just didn't feel like doing anything. He came over every day and brought me gifts; flowers, candy, cards, jewelry—and a little book of coupons he made himself, for things like 'One free kiss' for when I felt better.

However, for as much good as he did (such as our picnics on the beach and walks through the moonlit surf, just like in the movies) there was the bad. I think it all started when I had to skip a date he'd planned (without really asking me) because I had to baby-sit a friend's daughter while she had her baby. Jake had been really annoyed, and I'd been pretty exasperated. As you can tell, our relationship was rarely a happy one after the first few months.

When I got home seven hours later, I collapsed onto the couch with a heavy sigh. I'd been afraid I'd come home to find Jacob waiting for me, but the apartment was as relentlessly quiet as it was even when Claudia was home with me, and she wouldn't be home for another four hours.

That was something odd about our living situation. You'd think that coming from a quiet, formal home would make Claudia rebellious, and I guess it did—when she was thirteen. But although she could now blast music all day if she wanted to, she didn't, although she did like to have the stereo on when she was home. But she never had it very loud, and even when it was somewhat above a normal level, neighbors didn't complain. Because Claudia, I assumed, never listened to it loud for long.

Which was why I almost levitated out of my skin when I clicked on the stereo with the remote and a song blasted out so loud I was sure I felt it vibrate my chair. I jumped up and turned it off right away and spun the volume dial, then turning it on again. This time, the music came out at a normal noise level. I breathed a sigh of relief, but I turned off the stereo. I'd lost the mood to relax; my heart was now pounding and my adrenaline was pumping; now I felt energized enough to run a mile. I was about to head into the kitchen to start a pot of macaroni and cheese when I saw something that made me turn back. A little yellow Post-It Note was taped to the side of the stereo. I had a bad feeling about it, but I didn't want to panic. Claudia had lots of those yellow sticky notes; she wrote all kinds of things on them. I was forever finding notes stuck to the fridge, the cereal box, the front door. But unless Claudia's normally straight, neat handwriting had become thick and messy, this wasn't one of her notes.

_I know where you live. I know where you work. What else do I know?_

I hurried to my room. One way to check and see if this was Jacob's work was to compare the note with a "love letter" he'd written for Valentine's Day the year before. The handwriting looked similar, even after comparing the two, but I wasn't sure.

That was when I saw the other note; taped to my pillow. I didn't read it. I ran out.

I shivered involuntarily, although it was at least forty degrees (Celsius) and I wasn't cold.

The rest of the evening was spent waiting for Claudia to come home. However, each footstep in the hall made me jump, and every noise made me twitch. When she did finally come home, I ran to her. Surprised, she almost dropped the jug of chocolate milk she was carrying. I caught the plastic grocery bag before it hit the ground and peered inside, like an eager child.

"Craving chocolate?" Claudia asked, amused, when I pulled handfuls of chocolate (milk-chocolate peanuts, Hershey cookies n' cream chocolate bars, and white chocolate bars) out of the bag.

"No…well, yes," I lied. What I'd really been craving was some company, but I knew telling Claudia anything other than that I was craving chocolate would result in a pretend faint and a "Get the thermometer, she must be sick!" routine. Besides, it was as good as telling the truth; Claudia hated eating alone and would take almost any excuse to sit down and have dessert.

We seated ourselves at the kitchen table and I felt better almost right away. Claudia and I might get along like dogs and cats (not well, just in case you have pets that _do_ get along) but when we need each other, we're there for each other. I decided then that I should tell her about the notes. I ran to my room and retrieved them.

Claudia's face tightened as she read them. And when I told her what Jacob had done, she fell into what almost looked like a comatose state. I took the opportunity to read the note that had been on my pillow; the one I'd left where it was and ran out of my room when I saw it.

_I know who you are and where you live. I know where you work and who your friends are. And your enemies. Do you know who your friends and enemies are? You should…_

I think my heart stopped beating. One of Jacob's favorite sayings was, "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer." This note had mentioned both friends _and_ enemies. If there'd been any doubt that this was Jacob's doing, it was gone.

"What if he was working with Dahlia?" Claudia finally asked, and I saw the shadow creep across my face in the reflection of the kitchen window. The thought had crossed my mind a few times, too, but it had seemed ridiculous. Why would every kitten up a tree be someone after me?

But it was possible. It'd happened before that people we'd trusted were working against us the whole time.

"Could be." I slumped forward. "First you and Tobias, then me and Jacob…"

Claudia didn't react to her ex-boyfriend's name. "Well, what can we do? I mean…I don't know. I thought this was all behind us."

"I hoped so, but I guess not. You know something? I almost wish Dahlia's schemes had just killed me ten years ago. Then I wouldn't be worrying myself to death. The worrying and wondering and…the stress…is just awful. At least if I was dead I'd be peaceful."

Claudia looked saddened, and I shut up. For several moments, we just sat in silence. Claudia picked at the chocolate bar wrapper for a moment. I stared at my hands, folded in my lap.

"You know, I hate this. You're right. Maybe we should both just go die. Less work for Dahlia," Claudia said, in a voice that indicated a joke without the smile. "And Jacob."

"Ha, ha," I replied, making no move to conceal my lack of feeling or even forced humor.

"What I find odd is, why threaten you? It gives you time to call the cops and buy better locks. Why not, if he can break in, and obviously he can…just break in and kill you, if that's what he's planning? Why waste time?"

I shrugged. "Maybe he knows the cops can't do anything yet, and he wants me to know that no matter where I go, I won't be safe because no matter how many locks we have and how many doormen, he can get through. He did today," I added, "and there's no proof. Not even these notes, really, because for all the police know, we could've written them. And we had plenty of locks he bypassed like they weren't even there."

"So what can we do? Keep hiding?"

I had to think about that for a moment. "No. I'm done hiding. I'm done," I repeated. "I'll lie low a while and see how that goes, but…I'm not going to crawl out of a hole once in a while for a breath of fresh air. I'm going to live my life and when death takes me, I pity it. Because I'm not going down without a fight."

* * *

**Author's Note: Obviously, I couldn't figure out how to end this. :P**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

'Out of the blue.'

I hated that saying. It's like saying 'keep your eyes peeled' or 'our eyes were glued to the TV screen.' Eew.

But it was the best way to describe my phone call to my mother. We hadn't spoken in so long, and to be honest, our brief conversation had been about as fulfilling as when you were six and promised yourself you wouldn't cry when you got your flu shot and didn't. My phone call had surprised her, and what surprised _me_ was how old and tired she sounded.

So ten years had changed us all. She still (I assumed) fought with my father, and I was still the Kishi that worked in a bookstore and still hadn't read much more than a mystery or romance novel for fun in her life.

Ashley had been hiding in her room for days. It was now Monday night, bloody hot, and I was getting depressed. It was the heat, and the fact that the one companion I had left (my mother basically made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with me so long as I wasn't a nuclear genius) was scared to death and refused to leave her bedroom, which was probably twice as hot as the rest of the house because she kept her window closed, even during the day.

At least I'd finally convinced her to take a shower. I'd had to bribe her with a Fudgesicle every time the ice-cream truck went by, but it worked.

"You know what?" Ashley said, making me jump. I'd been bent over the table, trying to draw a girl in a prom dress, and she'd come up behind me.

"Sorry," Ashley apologized, just as I sighed and said, "What?"

We were both silent for a second. "I was just going to say…I miss the times we used to go out for pizza in the middle of the night," Ashley began again. "You know, when neither of us could sleep and everything was more fun."

"I don't know of any pizza places open at three A.M.," I said, "though if they are, they're crazy to be working the ovens in this heat."

Ashley nodded. "How about Slushies?"

"You want to go out?"

She shrugged and nodded. "I don't know about you, but I think trying to fall asleep is impossible. And boring. And," she said, "stressing about it doesn't do any good. Why not? My treat," she added.

"Okay," I agreed. "Something cold might do the trick."

The buses weren't running, and taking a taxi seemed excessive. So, even though it was the middle of the night, we started walking. The one thing that had, even through years of baby-sitting and safety tips and courses, disappeared with the years was the caution I'd felt so often growing up; of being nervous about leaving the house because everywhere you went you heard about rape and murder.

However, having lived in Chicago for ten years and being without my parents had made me somewhat confident. Confident enough, actually, that when we heard footfalls from behind us, I didn't even give it a second thought or a glance over my shoulder, although Ashley tensed beside me. I could practically hear her thoughts, and it was a jumble of _Oh my God, Jacob was watching our house and now he's behind us! Or maybe it's Dahlia and she's just about to kill us both!_

Ashley's probable thoughts—which, of course, I could only assume mirrored the ones I'd thought so many times myself—were the reason I looked over my shoulder. I should have been more aware of my surroundings, and perhaps more cautious—but because I didn't see anything, I assumed everything was fine. Until I caught sight of Ashley, stopped, and turned.

Nobody had been behind us because they'd hurried in front of us, and I hadn't even noticed. Now a knife was pressed into my throat, and had I not stopped walking I'd have walked right into it. Ashley's eyes were huge.

"Give me your purse, bitch," a gravelly voice muttered, the strong stench of alcoholic breath badly concealed with a Tic-Tac mint hitting me as the mouth opened. The hand holding the knife was shaking, and I was worried more about Ashley than myself. Her face had gone deathly pale in a millisecond, and I could do nothing, not even try and hand my purse over, as my head was forced up and to the side. Any move I made would have the knife slicing into my esophagus.

I don't actually remember a lot of what happened next. What I do remember was thinking about what a relief it was that this was just a mugging and not Dahlia or Jacob trying to kill us.

But few things about that night will be clearer in my mind than the echoing sound of the gunshot as it pierced the silent night air, followed by Ashley's shrill screaming as a dark, shadowy silhouette darted into the alley, followed shortly by the wail of a siren as it approached. It all happened so fast.

We never did make it to the convenience store for those Slushies.

. . . .

It turned out that we hadn't been totally unharmed. The knife had pierced my neck during the mugging, but I'd been, unknowingly, in shock and hadn't even felt it. And Ashley proceeded, after being checked up at the hospital, to lock herself into her room again. This time, I didn't try coaxing her out. Nobody knew who the mysterious gunman had been.

I was in a daze, and it was only worsened, my anger fueled and fiery, by what happened next. Eleven years earlier, I'd have thought it impossible to have a conversation with a family member at all like the one I had only two days after having a knife to my throat, and _especially_ after having had a knife to my throat. Then again, ten years earlier, the worst thing my young mind could conjure up was to be removed from the BSC because my grades weren't high enough.

It was Wednesday, at exactly six-thirteen. I was eating macaroni and cheese despite feeling a little sick, and when the phone rang, it reached the third ring before I even remembered Ashley wasn't going to answer it. I reluctantly pulled myself up and trudged to the phone.

I don't know why I answered it. I saw the call display and knew it was my mother. I guess I hoped she was calling because she missed me after our conversation and was as depressed as I had been about having been out of touch for so long. Then again, maybe the sick feeling I had wasn't because of the heat and/or the lack of sleep/inability to eat while it was so hot and depressing. Maybe it was a premonition, like I'd known things were about to get worse.

"Claudia?"

"Mom?"

"I'm just calling because your father wanted to know if you would like to join us for Janine's birthday party."

"Janine's in town?" I asked, completely surprised that she would come back after all that had happened and that she'd want to see our parents. I was actually so surprised that, for the moment, I totally missed the fact that she'd hinted that _she_ didn't actually care if I came or not, and that my father hadn't bothered to call me himself. Maybe he was trying to patch things up. In any case, Janine was in town and obviously hadn't bothered to tell me _that_ herself either. Was I that unimportant?

"Yes, and it's her birthday," my mother said, as though I was a total idiot. Each of my family members had used such tones with me before; usually when they were helping me with homework (again, eleven years earlier, before they gave up on me) and I'd been daydreaming, doodling, or got a 'simple' problem wrong.

"Oh." I hesitated. "When's the party?"

"Next Saturday. But you don't _have _to come." She was doing something she'd done before—except that this time, her voice didn't sound as though she was smiling as she spoke, knowing I'd come and that I knew she was teasing me. She _actually_ didn't want me there. The words were the same, but the meaning was all wrong. And I knew she knew I could tell what she was doing. I let a heavy silence hang between us for a few moments, in which I could feel her waiting for the expected answer, a neutral "Maybe" and a noncommittal "Thanks for the invite."

"She's my _sister_," I answered flatly (not to be confused with a neutral tone; neutral meant without a side. My voice was flat; like a hammer hitting a nail. It was like I'd just snapped at her, without the anger—yet. It was building slowly, but I could tell that if it had the chance to explode, it would be a doozy.).

"Yes," my mother agreed, playing along, as though I didn't understand something.

Before she could 'play' any further, I added, "Of course I'll come. When and where?"

My mother responded slowly. "Saturday. Kinsmen West Park. One o'clock."

"Good." The phone call seemed over, so I slumped back to my chair, still holding the phone, so I could finish eating. As I did, my mother started talking.

"Claudia…what changed? I mean…everything that happened ten years ago changed you so much."

"Your point?" I said, through a mouthful.

"I'm sorry, but…I mean, why aren't we as close as we once were? I know my Claudia Kishi is still somewhere in there."

"Why aren't we _close?_" I almost choked on my dinner. "You don't _know?_"

"I know everything that happened with Janine was uncomfortable, sweetie," Mom said, "but just because she had the spotlight for a while doesn't mean you were any less special."

Who was she kidding? I was so amused by her pathetic attempts to 'figure me out' that I was almost laughing on the phone, even though the bandages around my neck made laughing—and eating, breathing, sleeping, showering, and moving—difficult. I was glad they'd be off the next morning.

"Mother, please," I said, not without thinking she was probably amused by my use of a word with more than five letters in it. "You have _NO IDEA_ at all why we aren't as close as we once were."

"But Janine was only in the spotlight—"

"This has nothing to do with Janine!" I'd completely lost my appetite. I pushed the bowl away, gathering my thoughts and relaxing the tense muscles protesting the compromising I'd had to do to sleep comfortably the night before. A hot bath would soothe them, after I'd vented the anger that was bothering me foremost. "I did everything in my damn power to get you guys to love me, remember? I spent _years_ doing my best at everything I did and all I could ever get out of you two was a 'You'll never equal Janine' or something similar."

"I thought you said it had nothing to do with Janine," my mother interrupted.

"Listen to me, for once!" I was beyond calming down. In fact, I was as close to yelling as I could be without disturbing the neighbors. "I spent the majority of my life living up to standards set by people who gave a damn and when it came to my own personal interests and growing up, I had to do it alone because none of my family cared enough to bother! My art classes were a sandbox next to Janine's ability to multiply in her head and do long division for fun! My interests were jokes to you. Forgive me if I don't particularly see you as my support group!"

My mother's response was silence, but I knew she was there because I could still hear her breathing, slightly harder than normal. I didn't care. I had a lot more to say.

"If you think for a minute we'll be all buddy-buddy at Janine's party, forget it. I'm through with pretending I'm someone I'm not to impress you. I can't do it anymore. I won't. So I don't think like a genius and I sure as heck don't plan on changing that. I'm sorry I'm the daughter you regret having, and I'm sorry birth control wasn't there for you, but take it out on me and I promise you that I will never lie when it comes to how you treated me. If ever I have children I can guarantee you won't see them. I totally get now why Janine left."

I knew that would sting. Janine was everyone's pride and joy. Maybe it didn't hurt as much coming from me, the accidental daughter, the one they regretted not when they found out I was going to exist, but when they found out I wasn't existing to be a solar scientist. Their love for a daughter came from the daughter's ability to bring pride to the family name for as long as she had it, and there could only be one. But it would hurt, and I hoped it would for a while.

"Claudia…" my mother began, sounding hurt.

I felt deflated. Like a hot air balloon with nothing more than a mild heat remaining. No air. There was no fight left in me. I waited.

My mother seemed unable to come up with the words to explain herself.

I took the initiative and hung up. Actually, since it was a modern phone, I simply disconnected. One disadvantage to advanced technology was that you could never disconnect loudly enough to let the other person know they were annoying you. A simple press of the button was all it took. That night, the single click seemed a lot louder than it usually did.

I took a hot bath (despite the heat) and headed for the porch to cool off afterwards. My aching muscles ached less, but my mind itself seemed to ache, not with physical pain, but with mental pain.

I'd long since ruled out my family as a supportive part of my life. They didn't care about me, obviously, so why care about them? I had bigger issues to deal with. And yet, despite the independence that action had garnered, it still hurt.

_Kerry probably feels a lot like this all the time,_ I thought. _Except that her family is composed of different blood. Her stepfather and his children, mixed with her sister and only real family as their mother. And, in a way, hers. It's even more mixed up for her than for me._

Maybe that would make me feel better. A long visit to the Battista house. Kerry and I could relate, and Bobbi was always more like a sister to me than Janine was. Even when Janine and I were getting along, she often spoke like a dictionary and I could see a general disinterest in me. Had she been allowed to dissect me, _then_ she'd have been interested.

I pulled myself together in thirty minutes (including changing clothes, because no amount of cool air, compared to inside, anyway, could keep me from sweating) and took the bus, glad for the breeze and that I didn't have to walk. I needed to, literally, cool down.

I was in luck. Bobbi and Kerry were home. Michael was back overseas, and the twins upstairs in their room, playing a board game. We were 'alone.'

I filled Bobbi in on everything, and Kerry sat silently through it all. I figured she was old enough to hear; at her age, I'd been in all kinds of trouble. Besides, I wasn't graphic. Even I didn't like the details.

When Bobbi left to get some snacks, Kerry and I talked. When Kerry left us to get down to serious 'adult talk,' Bobbi and I ate fudge, drank our ice water, and talked.

She's good to talk to. If not for our ages, I'd say Bobbi could practically be my mother when it comes to giving advice and making me feel better. In any case, I felt better, just sitting there, before we'd even started talking.

"I wish someone could have told us ten years ago that things wouldn't be any easier even a whole decade later," Bobbi began, and I laughed, feeling slightly better. "I wouldn't have looked forward to 'now' so much."

"What's wrong with your 'now?'?" I asked. "You have a great family."

"Oh, I know that," she assured me, "but Kerry isn't happy and Michael…is actually being a real pain. He knows _something_ happened that involved both Kerry and I, and he's accusing us of…well, I think he just feels left out. He even said he thought Kerry and I were just using him and his daughters."

I had to think about that for a moment. "Your daughters, too, aren't they?" I didn't have to wait for Bobbi's nod. The twins looked like Bobbi; younger versions, but the similarities were definitely there. "If anything, it'd be _him_ using _you, _wouldn't it? You were the one in this relationship with the money."

"Exactly why we signed a prenuptial agreement," Bobbi said, "so that we take out of this marriage whatever we brought in. We gain nothing and lose nothing, I guess, but we aren't thinking of divorce. He's simply hurt. And I don't think he means I'm hiding something or using him financially. I think he thinks Kerry and I were using him and the twins to…'makeshift' a family, to feel like we belonged."

"That's so wrong!" I cried, feeling indignant. And, like a kid. I blushed.

Bobbi smiled thinly. "Yes, it is. But while Michael's gone, I'm the sole supporter of the family. A single mother of three, anyone might say. But I think that's another thing bothering Michael. While he's away, I'm…well, he said 'single and struggling.'"

"Ooh, that's a real compliment," I replied sarcastically. "Why doesn't he just come out and imply that without him you're desperate?"

Bobbi laughed. "That's next, I suppose."

We talked a while longer, but I was silently thinking about how crappy life seemed when it should have been better. Ten years earlier, our lives had been shattered. You'd think things would eventually have gotten better; that we'd have at least been able to glue the pieces back together. But we had, somewhat, and it felt like someone was standing over us with a hammer, ready to break what was already too fragile.

Had I known what the future brought, I would never have complained.

* * *

**Author's Note: I'm SO sorry for the…what, twenty-day delay? Ouch! I was SO stuck on this. I had it almost entirely written and then…I lost all the motivation for it. I rewrote it and it only took a day, not twenty, to write. I really hope inspiration for the next chapter comes a little quicker! Hmm…lots of dialogue in this chapter, I guess to make up for all the ones without/practically without. :P**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Some things just didn't quite add up. When I'd met Mallory, she'd been carrying a notebook, but not planning to write anything down. She'd had a recorder on her. Why had she brought the book, then? Didn't she know it'd only make me wonder and more certain that she wasn't simply trying to reconnect with an old friend?

And Ashley, too. When I'd had my final phone call with Tobias, she had gotten upset by his cheating on me while on the phone with me, yet she'd tried taking him from me, too.

What was really going on was that it was five-fifty-eight A.M. and I had been asleep, but suddenly I couldn't stop thinking. I wasn't even aware how I'd woken up.

Five days had passed since my phone call to my mother, and that meant Dahlia had been free for a while. Not a single day passed that I didn't think of her. Not a sound was heard that didn't make me flinch. And yet, nothing had happened. No notes, no gunshots, no knocks on the door, no phone calls. The reporters kept calling, and we'd changed our number-and yet they still got through. So we were mostly leaving the phone unplugged. Although the apartment was deathly silent-no music, because we couldn't hear if something was wrong, and no talking, because Ashley still refused to leave her room because she was convinced that each time she did, something bad happened-I was lying there, awake. For once, it was a nice, cool night. It was very dark, and the streetlights far below illuminated the falling rain in a pale glow on the ceiling.

After all that had happened, and how far we'd come in trying to heal-and I wasn't just talking about the distance between Stoneybrook and Chicago-it all felt like it was for nothing. Dahlia was going to be free, and here I was, in the same city as a woman who, as a girl, had tried to kill me. She had tortured and killed and done horrible things, and there was no doubt in the minds of anyone that she would remember me. She'd remember Bobbi, too, but were the familial bonds strong enough to keep whatever insane part of Dahlia's mentality from going after her twin? I hoped so, especially since Bobbi had children of her own.

I could practically feel Dahlia thinking about me.

"That's just paranoia," Kristy Thomas would have said, but she would have been worried. And in her typical foolish adolescent bravado, she would have gone after Dahlia herself with her baby-sitting club army at her heels for me. She would have played hero until the end, when trapped and tortured like the rest of us, she would be spewing superhero lines as if from a comic book while Dahlia stood over her laughing as Kristy suffered like a villain from a movie. And yet, Dahlia would see the cheesiness in her villainous laugh and Kristy's defiance and roll her eyes and torture and kill all the worse so nobody would think the situation was as laced with corny cheesiness as it was. Kristy would have done just that, too; she'd always ended up getting the BSC into danger (potential danger, usually, because usually we faced silly things that we had gotten freaked about and were sure it was far worse) and as a group, we got out of it without the help of the police, even though they often should have been involved from the start.

How stupid she would have had to be to think a group of young baby-sitters could go up against a criminal and actually win, to play hero and come out as heroes, unscarred and brave and untouched. I didn't doubt the jail sentence had only made Dahlia worse; increased her insanity and heightened her fixation on terror.

And yet, I knew without a doubt that if the BSC was still around, it would be Kristy in the lead, with her supposed-to-be-big-and-great ideas and her fantasy of standing at the top of a hill with a backdrop of dark clouds and lightning behind her while the wind blew her hair back and she gazed slightly upwards with an expression of toughness and bravery. Meek little Mary Anne would be right behind her, with the same fantasy, and looking concerned. The odd thing was, I doubted the former BSC girls (with the exception of Kristy) were the way they had been. Mary Anne, shockingly, had ended up a porn star; which I'd found out by accident when researching Stoneybrook hours before my latest sleepless night. Stacey was dead, so she was the same, though she probably didn't look as beautiful as she once did. Mallory, I knew, had become a reporter. I'd researched her name and come across articles she'd written for a newspaper. So that confirmed what I'd feared; that she'd only been after me for juicy news-worthy things to tell the world, no matter the cost to me. I supposed nobody knew where Jessi was, though I'd oddly enough seen a woman who looked so much like her a few days before that I was certain it was her, but she didn't move gracefully like a ballerina and I'd lost her in a crowd of doughnut-munching coffee-drinking early-morning office workers. Nobody knew about Shannon, Logan, or Abby; I'd researched their names on social sites and had come up empty on all three. Dawn was also MIA, though I'd heard from Bobbi who had started researching my old friends as well that Dawn was seeing a therapist to stabilize her general mental state after years of drugs and recovering from anorexia.

All in all, I wasn't exactly eager to find or keep those friends. Everything was so messed up. Anorexia, drug abuse, porn films, nosy reporters, and idealistic daydreamers with too much confidence.

My family was a mess. My older sister's birthday was in two days, and I had no idea how that would go. Janine had always been a bit of a mystery to me. And my parents would be there, too, of course. My mother-I didn't want to see her at all. She'd implied over the phone that my father had wanted me there.

_"I'm just calling because your father wanted to know if you would like to join us for Janine's birthday party."_

Those had been her words. My father had wanted to know if I'd want to come. It wasn't exactly an invitation, but he'd thought of me, and maybe that had bothered my mother, prompting her to call me. Maybe that one phone call to her that I'd made had made her want more. But why? It had been unsatisfactory and she'd been brief and almost uncaring. Had she felt bad for the way she'd sounded, or had my father urged her to make peace?

Whatever. I wasn't going to chicken out. I'd fought with Janine many times, but those things were all in the past. We were both women now, and she'd kept in touch-sort of-so I felt okay about going. I knew I'd feel bad if I didn't, anyway, so even though I didn't want to go simply because of the parents I'd have to face, I knew I'd go.

What was Jessi doing in town, anyway? Had she come with Mallory? Did she know Mallory had been here? Had Mallory kept in touch with Jessi after all, and lied about that, too?

I didn't know. But I was pretty curious. So curious that I once again got up, did a look around the apartment, settled down at the computer, and did an Internet search for Jessi's name. I checked several sites before I remembered to check Facebook.

And it was so stupid. She was the only Jessi Ramsey listed. And the very first person in her list of friends was Mallory Pike.

It figured. Why had I not thought to check the most obvious place in the world? That was typical of the dumbest Kishi.

_Age: 22. Single. Female. Status: visiting Chicago!_

I sighed. So Jessi was here. And so was Mallory. That couldn't possibly be a coincidence. If Jessi didn't know what Mallory had done, but Mallory had told her what _I'd _done, she'd hate me. Or did she know what Mallory was planning and hadn't stopped her or warned me?

It was a mess. Nobody knew how to react. Maybe Jessi thought I'd hate her after all this time because I wasn't keeping in touch, though if she knew what'd happened, maybe she'd understand and was giving me space. Maybe Mallory had been trying to screw with us, telling me she didn't know where Jessi was, but meanwhile bringing her to my city and not bringing Jessi when she met me. Maybe Mal was even thinking that if I got mad at her I wouldn't want anything to do with Jessi. But was she trying to protect Jessi, or me? Was she trying to keep us apart?

I felt a little like maybe I should find Jessi and talk to her, figure things out for myself. If Jessi was helping Mallory, it was true I wouldn't want much to do with her. If Jessi was innocent, it would have been great if we could still be friends.

I logged on, sent her a quick message, and decided to get ready for work. But I still felt pretty listless-with my luck, Jessi had been the one to hatch the plan in the first place. And anyway, what good was living when you had to live in fear and feel that all your life's struggles would be pointless?

I could hardly wait to get home and check my messages all day. I think I actually started to log into Facebook while at work, but there seemed to be three times the normal number of customers, so I was busy the whole time. By the time I actually got home, all I wanted was to take a hot bath, eat food someone else had cooked, and go to bed without worrying about the dishes. It was my last shift before the weekend, which meant Rachel would run the store and I would have to go to my sister's party.

After I'd had a hot, soothing bath and grabbed a package of cookies for supper (hey, when you're in your mid-twenties you can do whatever you want for food) I headed for the computer. To my surprise, Ashley had come out of her room and was asleep in the armchair, a book in her lap and a glass with a melting ice-cream float about to overflow on the table beside her. I drank it for her and sat down at the computer.

I logged onto the Internet and found my message center. There was one unread.

_Claudia? Oh my gosh! It's been ages? How are you? Yes, Mallory's in Chicago too; I tagged along with her. Did you know she ended up as a reporter? It figures, seeing how nosy she always was, and loved to write, too. Wow, so you're in Chicago too! I didn't know that! I saw your profile on here but I couldn't message you because I wasn't on your friend list and your profile's set to private...I couldn't even try adding you...I hoped you'd find me on here! I sure have missed you...maybe we can all get together sometime?_

I hesitated. It sure sounded like Jessi wasn't aware of Mallory's...well, what she'd tried doing. She did know that Mal was a reporter, though, and she didn't even mention my past. Jessi wasn't stupid; she'd put two and two together and realize that I was a big story because of Dahlia's release, see that Mal was a reporter, and know what was going on. How would she react?

Of course, there was the possibility that Jessi was lying, too. Maybe she knew what Mallory had tried doing, and maybe she'd known about it before. Though, there was the possibility that Jessi had tried warning me. I did keep my profiles private, and I didn't trust usernames. And I had kept the phone disconnected, too, so if Jessi had found a number to call, she might've heard that it was out of service or something.

Even so, I felt a little excited. Reconnecting with someone, even though my experience with Mallory should have warned me off of that type of interaction, was a thrill. How different would Jessi be? Was she still nice and not nosy and innocent? Would she have suggested we "all get together" if she knew about Mallory's attempt to use our former friendship to get a story?

I didn't know, but as the messages continued, I felt I was about to find out.

* * *

**Author's Note: I'M BACK! For now, anyway...my life has in the last year consisted of a lot of the things I could only imagine about as I wrote this; heartbreak and grief and terror. Long story. Anyway, I hope to be back to this story and able to be motivated and find inspiration and get hooked on writing it to completion. I hope this chapter doesn't vary in length and style compared for former chapters, but I only have WordPad and therefore, no word count that I can find, and it's been over a year since I posted Chapter 10, so...I had to reread it all myself before I could write again, and ... I talk a lot ... I hope the long huge delay in updates hasn't lost me all my reviewers and/or that this wasn't totally boring as the first in a long time of updates...well, if you're still interested in this at all, please review! :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12  
Mallory**

When I had come to at the top of the stairs in a shabby apartment building, I had at first had a flashback to the day I had sat in the bathroom of a crappy apartment building crying as I looked at the pregnancy test in my hand. (Luckily the test was wrong.)

But this time I hadn't been lead into a taxi and stumbling over my borrowed high-heels in a drunken daze after a few hours in a seedy, smoky bar. This time, I'd met up with a friend.

Well, Claudia and I weren't exactly friends. Maybe we sort of had been once, but we weren't now. She had punched me out with a single blow, and left me at the top of a staircase in her building. As far as I was concerned, I hadn't had it coming. I _had _tried to use her tragic past to further my career and to do so, tried to trick her by letting her think I could still be a trusting friend, but that was life. It had been ten years since the horrors she'd faced, and in my here and now, I faced a growing stack of bills and more than ever letters of late rent cheques from the landowners. She needed to get over the past, and I needed to keep my suite, my cat, and my job, plus food in the house and electricity.

"That's cold, Mallory," Jessi told me, when I said that. I was sitting at a table in a coffee shop in a corner, with a pack of ice pressed against my face. It'd been days since I'd been punched out, but the pain in my face was still there, as sharp as ever. My eye had a dark black-and-blue bruise, and my temple was bruised, too. Oddly, neither hurt as bad as my cheek did. Chicago was bad luck for me.

"No duh," I replied.

"I meant that what you just said was cold," she informed me, not exactly sounding warm and welcoming herself. "Claudia may not be over the past yet and she may never be. It's exactly like you to be so hypocritical."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, ready to take offense. Jessi was such a pain sometimes.

"You still can't get over how when you left for boarding school, the triplets took over your role as the 'eldest sibling,' which you complained a lot about when it was your role anyway."

She had a point, I had to admit. Being the oldest meant I was stuck with unwanted, unexpected baby-sitting jobs and had to make sandwiches and lunches and brush hair and do cooking and cleaning sometimes. But it also meant that my seven younger brothers and sisters often came to me with their problems and triumphs and it meant I was special and important and needed. Losing that role after having it for eleven years is hard.

"It's not the same. Claudia didn't have to deal with a change in her family situation."

"Yes, she did. Wasn't it Claudia whose sister left after having eloped and her parents split up?"

I shrugged, trying to think back but trying to look like I didn't care. Honestly, I didn't care what Claudia was feeling. What had happened a decade before had happened a decade before. Ten years could change a lot. Change happened in seconds. Whatever she'd faced was in the distant past. My career crisis and the possible loss of all I'd worked for was a thing happening right now, and a good friend would be helping me, not punching me out like Claudia had.

"That's selfish, Mal," Jessi said, when I'd said that. (Nothing I said was impressing her.) "You tried to use the worst time period in Claudia's life for your personal benefit and then show it to the world as something you think everyone would want to read because it's hot and juicy."

"You sound like my ex," I interrupted.

"_And_ you think _she's _the one being a bad friend?" Jessi glared at me.

I sighed. Again, Jessi had made a point. I wished she'd stop poking me with it.

"Look, Mal. Do whatever you want. I know you will anyway. Just keep my name out of it, okay? If it's possible, I still want to be friends with Claudia."

"You do? Why? You'll get your face plastered into every gossip-filled tabloid in every checkout stand in the store."

"If that's the price I pay for being a good friend, then I'll pay it gladly, even if it is at the hands of people like you," Jessi said.

The ice on my cheek and temple suddenly felt a lot hotter as the blood rushed to my cheeks, my temper flaring and my indignation as clear as a prehistoric pond. "Hey!" I snapped. "I'm doing what I have to do to pay the bills and keep up my half of our rent! When's the last time _you _took any kind of risk to stay on top of your responsibilities?"

"Probably when I last listened to you and we ended up in jail for a night for siphoning the gas out of the RV park so we could get to work the next day."

She was right again. That had been the last time she'd listened to me, and although we did it because we couldn't afford gas money and it was a bit of a commute to work in a town where there wasn't a bus or taxi and it was too dangerous to walk, she'd never quite forgiven me for getting us into that situation, getting us caught, and then putting all the blame on her.

I sighed. I needed less rational friends.

"So just keep my name out of this, and I'll stay out of your way," Jessi said. She stood up and left, dumping the last few drops of her ice-cream cappuccino into the sink and leaving the mug on the bin.

I hadn't even thought about the possibility that she and Claudia might end up being friends again. That was one thing I'd liked about the BSC; extreme loyalty. You didn't sit with anyone else, and you didn't do hings with anyone else, either. It hadn't even occured to me that Jessi might not be 'right behind me' and 'have my back.' It hadn't occured to me to tell her not to talk to Claudia, either. What if Jessi ended up on Claudia's side? What if Jessi told Claudia all the things I'd said? If Jessi had tried to warn Claudia about me, had Claudia believed her? Had the two of them already been talking to each other before I'd met up with Claudia? Maybe it wasn't just me being sneaky; maybe Jessi was, too.

. . . .

Talking with Jessi had definitely ruined my craving for any kind of fancy beverage, so I left not long after she did. She took her car, and I took my bike.

Really, I was feeling both insulted by the things she'd said and embarrassed because everything she'd said was true. I was glad she'd left before I had because I didn't have to stay and force conversation.

I couldn't go home, though. Her car was my only way of getting home, since we lived out of town, and anyway, we'd agreed to meet at the coffee shop at six that evening after we'd shopped and worn out our interest in the city for a day.

_Mallory Pike, you may have really screwed things up this time,_ a voice in my head said as I headed for the consignment store we'd passed on the way to the coffee shop. _Jessi was right about a lot of things. She was almost always the most rational person in the Baby-sitters Club. When I was getting uptight about things and the older club members were all annoyed at Kristy for something or other, Jessi sat there most of the time watching and listening and then, at last, when everyone's opinions had been repeated, she'd speak up with some perfect solution. It's kind of weird, now that I think about it, that this was so overlooked and that Kristy got all the credit for brilliant ideas and simple solutions._

I pulled up at the shop, went inside, and started browsing. I needed a nice, pretty summer dress; something long enough to hide my legs but cool, too; maybe a tank-top-style dress. Something in white, maybe. My red hair didn't allow me to wear many of the colors I liked, including pink, but it did mean I looked good in black or white. But black, I knew, retained heat, and that was the last thing I wanted.

The girl who worked there seemed familiar somehow, but I didn't dwell on it. I had found a great dress, but it was out of my price range. Jessi had taken off, so I couldn't borrow from her. (Even she had been hypocritical for a long time, accusing me of not being able to get over losing my place at the head of the line of siblings in my family while she couldn't get over the time in California when I'd gone crazy and spent a lot of money on makeup and things I wasn't allowed to use and then spent the rest of the vacation borrowing from her.)

I walked out empty-handed and in a slightly bad mood. It was then that I saw that someone had tried stealing my bike lock. The chain was on the ground, the lock beside it. My bike was still there.

That only made me feel worse. I couldn't go into any other stores and leave my bike alone; the chain was broken and I had been saving for a new dress, though I couldn't afford the one I really liked. So buying a chain was out of the question, too. I knew I had at least five hours before Jessi would be back at the coffee cafe, so it'd be a long wait. I started back, taking my busted chain and lock with me. I sat on the curb and waited.

After a while, getting bored of baby-sitting road-trip games like finding out-of-state license plates and certain colors of cars, I pulled out my notebook and started writing.

_Jessi's been a much bigger pain today than she usually is. Usually I can ignore the wise things she says, but today I can't because she's made it sound like I've been acting like a petulant little kid and if I argue, it only proves her point. Though, by NOT arguing, I'm sort of agreeing anyway. So here I am, sitting in front of the Coffee Cafe here in Chicago, and I have four hours and forty minutes before Jessi's supposed to be back here. We agreed to meet here at six, after we've exhausted the shopping centers. I don't doubt she brought along a massive portion of her savings account to make this fun. Me? I couldn't even afford the only thing I liked, even though it was exactly what I'd come looking for and the only thing I'd been saving for and looking for, too. I'd just bet that if I told Jessi, she'd say 'Rotten luck' and leave me feeling all the more immature for not preparing better by bringing more money and even asking.  
_  
"Mal? What are you doing here so early?"

I looked up and gestured to the bike leaning against the wooden fence beside me. The chain was draped over the seat, the lock on the handlebars. "I had to come back."

"I see," she said, puzzled. She went inside, came out with two milkshakes. "Come on," she said. "You can't sit here until I come back again later, so why not come now? We can hit that movie theatre we passed on the way in and see what's playing. Maybe we'll find something good."

"Maybe," I echoed, but I accepted the milkshake from her, anyway. Mine was strawberry. Hers was some kind of orange. We put my bike into the back and I took the passenger seat again.

"I'd been sort of looking for you," she admitted, "because I forgot to give you something."

As she pulled a pink-tissue-wrapped box out of the side door, I replied, "You were trying to find someone in Chicago by driving around?"

"Well, sure. How far could anyone get in a traffic jam on a bike, anyway? And in case you'd gone into a store, I'd looked for your bike outside. Not many people have metallic purple-and-blue bikes, or keep them so clean and shiny."

I had to agree with her on that one. "Though my bike chain isn't doing so well. Man, it took forever to find a blue chain like that!"

"And that metallic purple lock," Jessi agreed, who knew just how hard I'd looked for those things because she'd been the one to drive from store to store, from town to town, and followed me up and down aisles looking for things I was stubborn enough to search high and low for.

I nodded. "Yeah, but it was worth it. It looked great."

"Open this," she instructed, handing me the pink box and grinning. We'd stopped behind a cluster of about thirty yellow-and-black taxi cars with a red light in front of us. It was like a religious convention, the bright red all-powerful controller at the front and the many alike commoners waiting for instruction. Stoneybrook never had to deal with traffic jams. Stoneybrook, though, was a place so small it didn't even have a taxi service.

I worked through the pink tissue and into the white box. Inside was a set of about fifteen pairs of pierced earrings. I was amazed; twelve pairs were of what looked like genuine birthstones in a variety of sparkly colors, and the other three pairs were shiny, silvery, dangly hoops in different sizes.

"Wow! But it's not my birthday," I said, admiring the diamonds of light that hit the roof, dashboard, and door of the car as I moved the hard, thick paper the earrings were nestled into.

"I know. I felt bad for criticizing you all day. I'm _not _saying that I think I was wrong, because I know what you did and what you said were wrong. But you're an adult now, too, and it's important to make your own decisions, so long as it doesn't get innocent people hurt. Or drag people like me down with you."

"Down with me as in, to my level?"

Jessi shrugged. For a second I was sure she'd say exactly what a BSC member would have said in our younger years- "You said it, not me." But she didn't. "Exactly."

I sighed. "Okay. I won't. Not just because you gave me a gift, either. I'd already decided that screwing with your life wasn't fair to you at all and that I'd keep you a secret."

"That's one of the problems, though," Jessi said, just as one of the many vehicles ahead of us started moving forwards. "I never said to keep me a secret, just not to involve me in your questioning."

"She'll think you were on my side if you knew what I was doing and didn't warn her," I rationalized. "That won't further any friendships, trust me. The odds are good she won't think of it as me trying to protect you guys."

"Protect us?"

I sighed. "Jess, there were details of the past that were given to newspapers that they couldn't use because it was too soon after the chaos to actually print them. The newspaper didn't shred those details as they should, instead saving them for a time in the future when the story resurfaced and maybe everyone involved would be better off with coping. The details _are_horrendous, but also true. The newspaper plans to run the story with all old details included even if I don't get the truth out of Claudia. Which may mean the other witnesses and speculations of the past could be wrong and end up making it worse for Claudia. Part of why I asked to be the reporter to work with her was because I could use my former-friend status with Claudia on my boss and make him think I could get her to open up more to me than she would to any other reporter. The thing is, I can't get Claudia to talk to me now, and even if I did, I can't really soften up the details of what happened. Not only would it be dishonest, but I need a sensational story to keep my job. If I can't run a good one soon, I might lose everything."

Jessi was quiet for a moment. "When you say it that way, you don't sound as bad. Almost like maybe you were trying to help somehow. Still, you have to remember that what you write, if you do stick to telling truths like you just implied that you do, isn't just a story. It may be to you, but to someone else it was a harsh, painful situation, a cruel and unforgiving time in life that they not only had to endure, but are now being asked questions about it by people who think 'it's just a story.'"

It was my turn for silence, which worked out because she wasn't done.

"When people who report these things in newspapers and on TV, they're paid to look concerned and worried and like they care, but they often don't. Why should they? They need to get paid and the people who they have to talk to are emotional and often the only real obstacle in the way of that paycheque. What I can't get is how easily people lose their humanity. People lose sight of reality and the most basic things like decency and feelings. I think you might have a slight advantage in this, after all. You _did_ know Claudia before the...before bad things happened to her. If you talk to her again, think about the Claudia you used to know. A girl who struggled in school and who felt like a failure because her sister was a college-going high-school student and the pride of the pride and the _creme de la creme_, if you know what I mean. A girl so good at art that she could do a charcoal sketch of her friends in ten minutes and there'd be no mistaking who was in the picture. A girl you looked up to for everything she wore and made and said simply because she was who you wanted to be. Talk to her like you're still talking to that Claudia."

"That Claudia is gone," I said, with a sigh. I leaned back. We were stuck in another traffic jam. "I've seen her. She's heavier now in weight, and she's just not the same. She used to have eyes that were bright with the excitement of being alive every day no matter what was wrong in her life; a failing grade or her sister's awards ceremonies or whatever. It may be weird of me to say because we were younger, but I remember thinking that of all the BSC members, Claudia was the one who always remained looking the most innocent. I could never capture how she was. It wasn't the clothes that made her who she was; it was her way of doing what she wanted as if she wasn't realizing what a craze she caused. When I saw her last, all of that was gone. She was wearing a white tank top and gray metallic sports shorts and black sandals. Her earrings were just little hoops, and her hair was back in a simple ponytail-at the back, not the side. Her eyes were different, too. There was no innocence at all. Just suspicion and worry and exhaustion. It looks like she hasn't slept in months."

"It happens," Jessi said, "but I guess I always expected sophistication-chasing Stacey to be the first to end up an adult like that. Kristy, too. She was never satisfied, was she?"

I shrugged. "Neither was I. I was creepy," I added. "I was always looking to make myself look more mature, by copying Claudia and Stacey and doing things I wasn't allowed to do, like buy and use makeup. Really, if I wanted to appear mature, I should have waited and took it in stride, instead of doing the most immature thing I could have done and blown all my money in California."

"Mary Anne, even," Jessi said, as once again the city of Chicago cleared its throat and the congested heart of the city began to beat once again. "She started wearing miniskirts as soon as her father was dating again and not watching every forkful of food that got near her. It's hard to believe we all still thought of her as shy when she was wearing miniskirts. Gross."

I glanced down pointedly at the miniskirt Jessi was wearing. She noticed and rolled her eyes.

"Mal, I'm twenty-two. She was barely thirteen. Big difference. I at least have the body for this now."

What would have been bragging at an other time was just cause for laughter now. It was true, though; what we'd looked like at eleven was a distant memory. Jessi especially looked good. She'd always been beautiful, with her shiny, black hair and cocoa-brown flawless skin and big, dark eyes. She had always been slender, and she was shapely and slender now, with perfect proportions. And Mary Anne, from what I knew, had never matured. Her breasts had always stayed the size of ping-pong balls and she was about as shapely as a wooden board. And not the kind that got warped from days in the rain.

I sat back as Jessi pulled up in front of the theatre and started reading aloud from the list of playing movies. I'd been beaten up twice in Chicago, in the course of...what, a week? Two? I didn't remember. I had started thinking about the first attack, and didn't remember why it had happened. It hadn't been Jessi, I knew, but had it been related to Claudia? Maybe. Her story was enough to get people involved. And the second time had been Claudia herself, in defense (sort of) because as far as she could see, I'd just been another nosy, inconsiderate reporter.

If she thought in any way the way Jessi did, it was true. I had looked pretty bad. But I'd been facing someone I hadn't expected to ever lose for the first time in a decade, and I'd sort of been unable to compose myself and make my questions and intentions clear and reasonable.

Could I do better? Would I seem desperate to get a good story out of her, or could I convince her as I'd convinced Jessi that I was trying to help soften the blow of a story that would get out whether I helped it along or not?

I'd have to wait and see.

* * *

**Author's Note: I realize that it seems my chapters bounce back and forth between days, and I'll try to stop that; it's confusing to write that way. And to read, I assume. In this chapter, Jessi and Claudia haven't yet connected through FB (FaceBook) so Jessi isn't actually hiding this from Mallory here. I hope this isn't too confusing, either.**

**My giant delay in updates (not counting yesterday's) is due to many reasons, and I feel I owe ya'll an explanation. Chapter 10 was posted on June 23d of 2010, I believe, and within a week of that chapter being posted, my mother and stepfather decided to separate AND my boyfriend dumped me, out of the blue, no explanation, in an e-mail. The summer worsened as drug dealers moved into the basement suite and we (my family and I) feared for our lives and dealt with all that had already happened. We prepared to move, but as we did, I ended up in the hospital with a dangerous potassium deficiency. On my birthday, on which I started feeling sick though I'd started feeling unwell about a week before that, my boyfriend re-connected with me and we've been talking ever since, though even since there have been misunderstandings. In April, although I've been attempting to graduate high school (I'm homeschooled, by the way) I moved out of my family's house and across the province to live with my boyfriend, who, by the way, I met online. My living with him is the only amount of time we've spent together in person since the night we met, as I got off a Greyhound sometime after midnight in a totally new place to me. Um, anyway, yeah. All of that is why I haven't updated. But I feel things have settled down for now and I know that when September comes, I'll be busy once again-but I'll try to update this once a week unless I can finish it this summer. :)**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

It had been a while since I'd really researched my friends, though information trickled in occasionally. I hadn't expected Saturday to turn out as it did, though it did involve quite a lot of the past. (What didn't involve the past nowadays, though?) For one thing, it was my sister's birthday and my parents were hosting that party. For another, Jessi wanted to get together and bring Mallory.

I was very against the idea of Mallory being there, but Jessi insisted that it would be okay. I'd ended up telling Jessi what Mal had done, and Jessi had said, 'I know. I tried talking her out of it. She'd told me she wouldn't do anything, but I guess she did. I've talked to her a lot lately about how she has to be considerate and polite if she's ever going to get anywhere, and she understands now. Please, give us a chance. I promise, she won't be anything like the Mallory you talked to the other day.'

I could see the desperation in the words she'd written, and a need for peace and closure. The BSC had collapsed while Jessi was away, and I knew that she was likely trying to keep what she could of her childhood memories alive and as happy as they once had been.

Janine's party was at one, at a fancy Italian restaurant, after we'd been to the park. I was skipping that part. They'd likely want to drag the event out. To keep me from having to stick around for a long time, I'd reluctantly agreed to meet Mallory and Jessi at four. I figured three hours was plenty, considering that Janine's husband would likely be there and that'd make Mom and Dad both uncomfortable and likely pick on me even more. What'd fuel their persistent peskiness was that I had been so distracted for so long that I couldn't even really remember if Janine had gotten married or if my parents had separated or divorced. Those were important things, but my brain often didn't clue into those things. Actually, everything other than safety and security had sort of taken a back seat to my mind.

I called Bobbi in the morning to talk and catch up. It felt like a long time since we'd last gotten together. Her first words after 'Hello' were 'Oh, hey! Long time no contact! How are you?' as if she was an aunt I hadn't called in years. We caught up (her kids were fine, though Michael was trying to be especially nice to Kerry after she'd talked to the family and now the twins were jealous) and I told her about everything. "I'm just glad my face hasn't been on TV," I said, "or I'd have hordes of reporters on me like ravens to a carcass."

"Gross. Well, you're lucky," she admitted, "because I'm Dahlia's twin. People see her face, learn about what she did, and then they see me walking among them. You don't know how many times I've seen mothers grab their children as I walk past, how many times the mall cops look at me like I'm some hardened criminal. Everyone thinks I'm Dahlia! The cops saw me the other day, I guess not knowing that Dahlia had a twin, and arrested me for escaping from prison! It took a lot of work for them to be convinced I wasn't my sister. I've kind of stopped leaving the house."

"I guess it was easier before Dahlia was back in the news," I mused.

After that, I took a shower, got dressed up, and waited for Janine's party to start. Ashley came in and started talking again about how she thought she'd seen Mallory in her store a few days earlier. She couldn't believe Mal would have the nerve to do what she'd done.

"I'll go with you to meet Mal and Jessi if you like," Ashley offered.

"Not a good idea. Mal's a reporter and if she sees you, she'll ask you a million questions same as she did to me. Jessi promised Mal would be decent, but that's only with me. It might be better if you stay out of Mal's radar."

"Maybe," Ashley admitted. "I didn't think of that."

I knew Ashley had gone through worse than I had. That meant, for all I knew of the media world, that the reporters would be after her more than me. Somehow, Ashley had managed to duck the majority of the media mess. I wasn't sure exactly how the newspapers and TV networks had decided I was the one they wanted the story from (maybe because Bobbi had guards and lawyers and kids and was too close to the killer-slash-terrorist, who they just called 'a criminal) but they had.

I was at the Italian restaurant five minutes early. I arrived just as Janine did. She was alone.

"Where's...um, where's your man?"

She giggled, something very uncharacteristic of the Janine I'd always known. "He decided to stay away. The last time my parents saw him, they almost caused a riot."

I knew why. Janine had met her man on the Internet. He was older than she was, and they got married (I was sort of sure of that part) and my parents, of course, assumed he'd lured her off and gotten her pregnant and that was why they'd gotten married. I nodded, glad she hadn't noticed my forgetting of her significant other's name and especially glad she'd come alone.

Inside, we sat down and waited for our parents. When they arrived, we ordered food.

I tried not to stare, though, because they both looked as old as I felt. Ordering food was a good distraction, but unfortunately, it was also a short one. After the waitress had left, my parents, sister, and I sat in silence. I took a moment to admire the decor and subtly avoid eye contact. The place was quite nice; big leather booths, lots of plants, and everything was done in dark reds and browns. It was fancy, for sure.

"So, how has your birthday been so far today, dear?" Mom asked Janine.

"Oh, rather nice, actually," Janine answered, just as articulately. She was interrupted by the ringing of her mobile phone just then, so while she tried to keep her voice down and be heard on the phone at the same time, my parents turned their attention to me.

"Claudia," my father said, trying to break the ice (though we all knew it'd take more than an ice pick to break up the coldness that had settled into the family) with a smile. "How's life?"

"Besides the fact that the one person I hate most in the whole world is twenty miles and one step closer to freedom?" I asked, not being exactly subtle about the fact that neither had contacted me to make sure I'd seen the news and become prepared.

"Yes, besides that," my mother snapped, having gotten the hint and obviously not decided to do what was right and look as embarrassed as my father did. He looked completely abashed. My mother was angry.

"Excuse me," Janine said, and took her phone to a quieter corner.

My mother turned back to me. "You think I'm happy that the monster responsible for what happened ten years ago is getting the last thing in the world she should ever have?"

"Excuse _me, _but do you think it's any easier to deal with when you're the one she'd come after?" My father looked pleadingly at us as Janine returned, she looking as upset and anxious as he did. My mother sighed. I did, too. It was a sigh of definite resignation. This felt like some kind of defeat. "Okay, fine. In answer to that question, life is great. I spend almost every minute of every night lying awake and watching in fear as the shadows move in my room even though the doors are all locked and I live on the ninth floor. I can barely eat because I can hardly breathe, waiting for an axe to come down on my head. I can't go to work because even Ashley has had a gun held to her head and she's only four stores away from mine. I can't socialize with friends because Mallory Pike came to me the other day supposedly as a friend and then I foound out she'd been recording our whole afternoon. So yeah, life is just fantastic."

My mother stared. My father kept his eyes on the maroon silk tablecloth. My sister avoided everyone's eyes as she said, "I'm so sorry, Claudia. That woman should have to die in the darkest cell of the most dangerous, filthy prison there ever was."

That was all it took for the tears to suddenly well up in my eyes. It felt like I'd been unable to cry for so long, and suddenly, it felt like my eyes had become ice and melted into hot rivers running down my face. And at that exact moment, a reporter with tight blonde curls stuck a microphone in my face and said, "Oh my gosh, Claudia Kishi, right? I overheard everything you just said about-"

I'd had it. I grabbed the microphone and dumped it into the complimentary glass of water beside my plate, told the woman without doubt where she could go and what she could do when she was there, and stormed off to the bathroom. The microphone sparked and hissed. My makeup was running and my head felt hot and my chest felt tight, but all I really knew was that I couldn't keep living like this. Dahlia wasn't even here to torment me and yet she was tormenting me just by existing. I was living in fear of her, and it was overwhelming. Janine and my father (yes, my father, in the women's bathroom; I could hardly believe the uptight old fart was that bold!) burst in to calm me down and maybe keep myself from trying to commit suicide (which I felt capable of in that moment; I felt nothing but intense anger and fruatration and the shakes, which had consumed me as I slumped into the cold tile wall, my gasping sobs the only sound in the room, echoing off the walls.) My mother, I saw, didn't come in after me.

"The nerve of that reporter," Janine growled. "Couldn't she see it was a bad time?"

_They're all bad times when it comes to the last ten years._

"Dinner, too," my father agreed, though Janine and I knew she'd meant that I'd been crying and it was the definite most inopportune moment for an interview. Sometimes fathers were so out of it.

"You should see what it's like at home," I sniffled. "The phone calls, the crowds, the police."

I was about to add that the crowds and cops were at Bobbi's place, not mine, when a weird rumbling sound accompanied by a sort of rhythmic shaking started up. Then, fire burst through a wall, and a shockwave sent my father, sister, and I all tumbling into the stall door closest to us on my left.

"Bomb!" someone screamed, and I was only aware of plaster raining down through thick smoke as someone pulled me through the mess of overturned tables and chairs. I hadn't even been aware of the person who'd led me outside coming into the bathroom. Outside, about forty people (my mother not visibly among them) gathered, gasping and out of breath, some splattered with blood droplets and others with spilled drinks and food splatters on their clothes. Some had burn marks. Everyone was talking fast and loudly and I realized after a few moments that I was only understanding small snitches of conversation.

"Look!" was one of the first words I understood. I glanced blearily in the direction everyone else was looking, and noticed a giant red spray-painted message on the side of a building facing us.

_**NO MATTER WHAT CLAUDIA KISHI DOES TO PIECE TOGETHER HER LIFE, I WILL ALWAYS BE HERE TO SHATTER WHAT LITTLE IS LEFT.**_

I almost choked when I saw my name on the wall. My mother appeared, read it, and turned so pale I thought she'd pass out. Janine was on my left, my father on my right, and both held one of my shoulders firmly, supporting me.

"This is exactly what I was trying to prevent," Mom said, almost tearful. I turned to look at her. The flames and sparks shooting from the building behind her made her look like a movie character, except that instead of the heroic look it gave some people, she looked moe villainous.

I shot her a look when she noticed me watching her. "What were you doing to prevent something like this?"

She looked hard at me. "You won't like the answer, but I won't lie. I was purposefully being rude and misunderstanding you for years. You've seen enough movies with that motto, something that usually goes 'One person sacrificed for the sake of many isn't a sacrifice.' I had to protect your father and I and Janine and her future by staying away from you. Bad things happen around you."

"And that's _my_ fault?" I asked, clapping one hand to my head in exaggerated exasperation only to feel a dizzying tingle race from the spot of inpact through my body. My palm came away bloody. I looked at it for a moment with interest, then back at my mother. "I sincerely hope you never get tired and sore running away from _my_problems."

I turned and walked away. My father hesitated, then came after me. Janine had leaned against the mangled metal remains of something charred and started crying. Sirens wailed.

"I swear, Claudia, I had no idea that was happening," my father said, stopping me and turning me to face him. His eyes were bright with tears, too. Some escaped and fell, streaking cheeks smudged with something with clear paths. "She told me _you'd_argued with her about protecting us and said that it'd be best for us if we avoided each other for a while, so nobody would connect us to you. I was tyring to honor your wishes by not talking to you, I promise, had I known sooner what she was doing, I'd have left her."

"Didn't you?" I asked, just a single second before a voice yelled, "There she is!" and a mob of reporters, microphones, cameras, and recording devices rushed at me. I stumbled for the first few steps but was running at top speed in seconds. I made it to my car and sped away.

It was probably a crime to have left a scene where there'd been a bomb and I'd been hurt and my name mentioned in the creepy, threatening message on the wall across from the bomb zone, but I knew that it didn't matter. The cops had to understand what this was like for me, and that with the reporters trying to get my voice to crack and my life to crumble on camera, I didn't want to stand there and wait for them.

I knew the reporters wouldn't understand the way the cops hopefully would.

. . . .

"I knew it," I said, as I stared down at the front page of the newspaper. The picture was of the bright red graffiti message on the wall, and in big black letters beside it, '**VICTIMS OF DECADE-OLD CRIMES NOT SAFE**.'

"What was your first bleeping clue?" I snapped, as though the writer would hear me and regret having written something so stupid.

"Huh?" Ashley looked up from a bowl of cereal and saw what I was looking at. "Oh."

I saw her face pale as she read the message in the picture. The picture must have been taken some time after my escape, since the bottom of the picture was ribboned with an authoritive yellow ribbon of police tape.

I sighed, sat back, and said, "I'll bet Jessi and Mal will want to know all about this."

Ashley shrugged. "At least they won't think you canceled out on them yesterday just out of nervousness."

"Yeah, well, it's worse now. Now someone's after me in a big way. They don't care who else gets hurt in the process. They don't care who sees. And that means nobody's safe as long as I'm around. I don't even dare go see Bobbi."

Ashley only nodded.

_I guess my mother was sort of right. Nobody's safe around me these days._

"Maybe I should go away for a while," I suggested, musing aloud more than actually taking myself seriously. "Someplace where nobody would find me. Maybe the attacks would stop." _And maybe nobody else will do as my mother did and distance themselves from me before they're bombed or beaten._

"Or maybe not. The Battista family was rich, and Dahlia's a bitch. Even if she isn't behind these attacks, which is unlikely, because I don't know of anyone else who wants your head on a silver tray, she has the money and influence of being feared to have others do her dirty work for her. She may be under intense supervision, but anything's possible. She could pay guards to help her, or even just stay silent."

"You aren't making me feel any better."

"Sorry. I'm just trying to help figure out how to live as normally as possible without worrying about bombs and death and torture and losing a friend even though all of these are things that could happen."

"You're still not helping me feel better."

Silence. It should have been weird, but that silence wasn't comfortable. Not because Ashley and I were still as compatible sometimes as fire and water, but because every time there was a moment of silence or peace, we listened for the sound of something to go horribly wrong, and didn't feel safe even in moments during which we should have been able to relax for once. It kind of made me sad that every moment we lived now was in fear, that Dahlia was still torturing us and in control simply because her fear-inducing ways had given us wounds that would never heal.

But I didn't dare cry again. When I cried I was even more vulnerable. Anyway, I was also worried that if I started, I'd never be able to stop. Had it not been for that bomb blast the day before, I didn't doubt I'd still be crying, or maybe passed out from exhaustion. Crying took a ton of energy.

I scanned the article and sighed. Three people (the cooks) had died. The bomb had been set up to explode in the kitchen, making it look as though cooking grease, cleaning chemicals, and gas from the furnace which had been repaired the week before ('improperly,' according to scene investigators, though the inspector and repair company had both verified the work was perfect) had caused the blast. But nobody had said it was just an accident; the fact that I was there at the time and my name written in the warning across the street both spoke for the fact that I wasn't safe and that it hadn't just been an unfortunate happening. Fourteen people had been injured, seven of them children, and five people remained in hospital. Almost everyone had suffered smoke inhalation and had been treated and released. Except me. Somehow, I'd made it out without any injuries (though I was slightly stiff and sore from having been slammed into the wall of the bathroom, since the bathroom and kitchen shared a wall) and even smoke inhalation.

"Maybe you were in shock and not breathing, or you'd had the wind knocked out of you," Ashley suggested, trying to explain it, but I could only come up with one unsatisfactory explanation that was, to be honest, creeping the heck out of me. And it was worse than 'Oh, you were probably just aware of how important it was not to breathe and held your breath. Bodies are capable of amazing things in desperate situations."

My personal theory was that someone had saved me and disappeared. They wanted me alive, because they couldn't keep torturing me when I was dead. It was a theory based entirely on paranoia and shock and fear and maybe a concussion, but everything that had happened had made me that way. It wasn't an unreasonable theory, really; have you ever felt the joy of squeezing a brand-new tube of toothpase, or opening a box of brand-new markers, or dug your fingers into nice, soft Play-Doh that nobody else has ever touched? It's fresh and moist and perfect and smells great. The point was, things were best when they were fresh and new and whole. Dahlia wouldn't want me to be dead; she couldn't shatter my life if I didn't have a life. She couldn't keep me living in fear if I wasn't living. In a way, living in total fear was almost worse than actually being in a physical cage. It was worse than real beatings, too, because although I couldn't see the cage I was in, a cage of fear and fruatration and traumatic nightmares, I was very aware it was there.

I scanned the article again. _Claudia Kishi disappeared after the bomb blast. Claudia Kishi ran like a dog with its tail between its legs. Claudia Kishi ran as though she had something to hide._

I started swearing out loud, startling Ashley and causing her to flinch and send a spray of colored milk droplets across the table. "'Claudia Kishi ran like she had something to hide?'" I read aloud, and swore again. "For crying out loud, I'm trying to hide what's let of my dignity and pride and what I managed to scrape together of my life! Obviously it needs protection! What do they think, that I'm terrorizing myself?"

"Jeesh, don't scare me like that!" Ashley exclaimed. "You had me thinking someone was climbing in through a window or something!"

We looked at each other for a minute, me noticing her shocked expression and the rainbow of milk splatters around a bowl of damp Lucky Charms and her probably seeing my pissed expression and evident exasperation and emotion. It was the most unexpected thing to do, but we both started laughing.

It was weird, but nothing was funny. We weren't relieved. But we couldn't stop laughing. I collapsed into a chair and felt like I'd explode from laughter; the back of my head, behind my ears, my face, my whole chest, they all hurt like hell. They felt like they were on fire. Only when my throat was tight and sore and I felt like I'd gag if I took a breath did I stop laughing.

Ashley's laughter had been reduced to giggles, too, but as suddenly as the laughter had begun, we sat in silence. Ashley pushed her bowl away, her soggy cereal abandoned, and folded her arms, leaning her head on them, gazing at me. I glanced at the lumps of rainbows and shooting stars in her bowl, the milk an odd pinkish-orange color that reminded me of salmon mixed with spots of blue and green, kind of like mold. I looked at her, at her blonde hair and blue eyes and fair, flawless skin.

That blonde hair had once shone like gold, when we were thirteen and naive even though we practically considered ourselves women. That blonde hair had also been a greasy, tangled mess of clumps and strings, the same color as an old, tarnished penny. Her eyes had once looked at me from across a table in a middle-school cafeteria, as we talked about sculpting stoplights and fire hydrants. Her eyes had been focused and confident. Those same eyes had also looked at me from a place sunken deep into her head, surrounded by filthy skin and filled with an animalistic emotion, something that told me she was almost beyond pain, almost to that point where she was in such bad shape that she would be numb and cold and without feeling before long. That skin, now as clear as the days she'd caught me playing silly backyard games with baby-sitting charges on job days, had once been covered in layer upon layer of sweat and grime and dust and mud and blood and saliva and who knew what else, the only clear spots where tears had streaked down her face and taken some of the filth with them.

It was odd. Her tears had cleaned her once, but not cleansed her. That was how I'd felt. That the tears I shed helped ease some pressure building inside me, but not cleansed me entirely of all the impurities. My filth, meaning my stresses and worries and everything that was becoming a physical pain inside my body, couldn't be cried out. It felt like a disease, clinging to my heart to slow it and my lungs to suffocate and my stomach to tighten it. My appetite had certainly decreased. If I didn't get away, maybe the disease of paranoia would overtake me, making me actually unable to eat and sleep and breathe.

Which would only leave me more vulnerable than ever for the inevitable attacks planned against me.

. . . .

The fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered. The hard chairs were plastic and squeaky and uncomfortable. The big windows reflected the brightly-lit insides of the bus station, but I could still dimly make out the distant outline of looming hills and the dark sky and rain as it poured down.

"You don't have to go," Ashley said, sounding near tears but also beyond sleepy. It was only seven A.M., and we sat side-by-side in the Greyhound bus station, waiting. "You could stay."

"And everything you and I worked for will be lost," I reminded her, "because someone's after me and will stop at nothing to, as you said, 'have my head on a platter.'"

She winced. "Yeah."

"You don't deserve to live in fear anymore," I told her. "You don't deserve to have everything taken away again. You should spend as much time as you can rebuilding now, and recover properly." So did Bobbi. I'd called her to tell her I had to leave for a while. She'd been completely understanding and offered me everything from a room in her house to money to cars and even airfare. She said to call if I needed anything, and wished me the best. She'd seen the newspaper, too.

The hint of tears I'd detected in her voice became visible in her eyes.

My bus was announced then, and I stood. Ashley did, too, but she didn't wait with me. She walked out to the car. I felt a tug on my heart and turned back to watch as one of the sleek silver mammoths pulled into the parking lot, knowing that maybe, another part of my life was coming to an end.

Though, if this part didn't end, there was the possibility that there wouldn't be any future parts.

Ashley came back, though I didn't know that until I'd claimed a seat maybe five rows back from the driver and Ashley seated herself across the aisle.

"What are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing? I'm coming with you."

"Why?"

"You were brave enough to once follow Bobbi to Chicago even though it put you within sighting distance of the only terrorist that ever affected you and your whole life for the sake of maintaining a close friendship," Ashley replied. "I can at least be brave enough to leave home for a while with you and be sure you'll be alright."

"What abour our car?"

"It'll be here. Everything will still be here for when we come back," she added, implying that she didn't intend to leave me, no matter how long I wanted to avoid Chicago, even though it was our home now.

"I meant, why didn't you tell me about you coming with me so we could have just driven?"

"For one thing, we'll have to keep paying rent for the apartment even if we don't live there if we want to come back to it, plus we have to make insurance payments, and we can't afford the gas to go wherever it is you plan on ending up. For another, if our car is at home, maybe the attacks won't follow us. Reporters, either. I know they chased you away from that restaurant, so I know they know what to look for."

"I also meant, who's going to get the car home for us? It can't stay in the parking lot."

Ashley turned and waved at someone. I leaned forward and noticed Rachel, the teen who ran my bookstore on weekends, standing by our car, waving back.

"Oh. Is that a good idea, letting a sixteen-year-old be in charge of a car like that?"

Ashley gave me a look. "Claudia, I'm running away from home with you, and we're both older than she is. If we're still immature to have to run away, I think we can trust a girl who agreed to do seven days worth of shifts even though she's still in high school."

"I didn't know she'd agreed to do my shifts!"

Ashley grinned. "Surprise."

I sat back with a slight smile. Ashley was being such a good friend; loyally not questioning where we were going, unconditionally coming with me, arranging things so it all worked out without my having time to worry about them. I'd figured my boss would just replace me and I'd have to find a new job when I got back. I hadn't told him I planned to leave. And we were as safe as we could be. I doubted anyone would have anticipated my getting on a bus, and I especially doubted that anyone would think twice about who was driving our car.

As it turned out, I was right, and very much wishing I'd been wrong.

I'd drifted into sleep, not knowing where we'd get off the bus (I'd picked a destination, but as for where we went from there, who knew?) but feeling content. Until, of course, Ashley woke me up, her face pale.

"What's wrong?" I asked, only aware that wherever we were was unfamiliar and that it was probably late morning or maybe early afternoon, and still raining. I expected her to say we'd been hijacked or something. All considered, it wasn't a far-fetched notion. Besides, I was still only partially conscious.

"The TV," she said urgently. "The News, it just had one of those 'this is what we'll talk about after the commercial' things, and it's about us!"

I was only a little more awake when she said that, and feeling sleepy enough to drift right off by the time the commercials for (what else?) dentist-recommended toothpaste and law-backed life-insurance policies and the most-watched news network in the country ended.

But the story Ashley was all wide-eyed about had me just as awake as if she'd dumped icy water on my head.

_"We go live now to Chicago where it appears as though a targeted shooting with a high-power automatic rifle has claimed the life of a sixteen-year-old girl who was driving this blue vehicle," _the newscaster said, sounding worried, _"and although the police have not confirmed the vehicle's owner or the deceased victim's name, sources say the vehicle belonged to Claudia Kishi and Ashley Wyeth, who moved to Chicago to start fresh after the events previously reported on this network in the most-anticipaed and most-watched coverage in years. This information comes from our own reporters, who were at the Italian restaurant the day of the bombing here in Chicago only days ago, and who followed what's believed to be this exact vehicle away from the scene."_ The scene changed from a helicopter view of a blackened street and a mass of almost indistinguishable steel that Ashley and I knew was our car to pictures, close-ups, confirming that it was our car. _"The car was not only riddled with bullets, but it appears a hand-held greande was fired into the gas tank before the suspect car left the scene, with officers in pursuit." _The screen changed again, this time to the news room, where the reporter sat behind a big mahogany-and-glass desk, looking concerned and suspicious and as neutral as she had to. _"Now, it seems to many people that we've talked with that Claudia was running from the scene at the restaurant on Saturday and now she and her roommate are nowhere to be found although their car was here, being driven by a teenager suspected to have worked at the same location Claudia did. Could this be a coincidence, or did Claudia set this up to make those after her think she was dead so they'd stop pursuing her? We go live now to our law expert Josephine Sphynx and psychologist David Sparrow to speculate."_

"Are they allowed to speculate like that on TV?" Ashley asked. "Isn't it the job of news networks to only report the facts and remain neutral until there's proof, and even then, only report the facts and use words like 'allegedly'?"

I shrugged. "Whether they should or shouldn't say this stuff, they're saying it."

_"It does seem suspicious that this car is found with the owner suspected to be who it is at this time in a history-making, big-news time in the country and especially for the suspected owner of the car, and the suspected owner can't be contacted or found, but since there isn't proof yet of anything, we must ask you not to speculate," a female officer interrupted, having stepped into the news studio with a thick report in her hand. "Typically we'd set up a conference for this, but there isn't time. The car is confirmed to be that of Claudia's and Ashley's, and the girl is confirmed as the worker Claudia knew, but we cannot release her name as she is a minor. We urge Claudia and Ashley to report to polie A.S.A.P. We understand the need to get away from the media at this time as it must be difficult for you to deal with the emotions this must bring up as you cope with everything that happened ten years ago and then the reopening of a wound so deep it must almost feel like it could split you in half, but for the sake of justice in the case of the sixteen-year-old's tragic death, which we are close to confirming if it was targeted at Claudia or Ashley and mistaken, we urge you to contact us immediately. Anyone with information on either Claudia or Ashley, suspected to be together wherever they are, is asked to contact police."_

* * *

**Author's Note: I wasn't exactly sure how to work this chapter to a close, but I figured that if someone who wanted Claudia (or Ashley) dead recognized their car, and if Claudia and Ashley couldn't be found, wouldn't it be interesting? Maybe they knew it was an innocent girl driving the car but wanted to send a message to Claudia and Ashley? I'm not sure yet, but I am pretty pleased with this chapter. It's long, I think! I can't tell because WordPad doesn't have a word count feature if it's long enough, but I think this chapter has enough in it to count regardless of technical length. :D**

**I'm not sure of myself yet, so if you have ideas, or if you hate mine, please tell me! :D**

**Also, as I can't simply check for spelling errors, please tell me if you see them :D Hehe, this chapter has over six thousand words! I guess I just keep going when no actual word count stops me!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Our car had been attacked. An innocent kid had been killed. Had someone been sending us a message, or had they actually thought it was one of us in the car? Either way, I hoped it had been a mistake, that Rachel's simple, minimal association with me hadn't resulted in a targeted death.

What was worse, someone who had been on the bus with us had gotten off and gone straight to the police. Luckily, the person hadn't remembered the destination of the bus (or of us, though we doubted we'd let anyone know where we were headed, anyway.) Unkluckily, they'd overheard Ashley mention how we couldn't afford gas to travel by car and recognized us somehow, then realized that it was our car that had been destroyed. The police had confirmed it only hours later. These police sure worked fast. In any case, Ashley and I now looked horrible; like killers.

I sure didn't feel very much like I looked good. I did feel a bit like a killer. The police were still not assuming things publicly or asking for us dead or alive. I planned to run to the nearest cop shop when we reached our destination and ask to talk to whoever I could to straighten things out. This could solve the big problem, but also a smaller one-namely, where we'd go once we got off the bus. Nobody was waiting for us and we couldn't trust anyone who might be willing to take us in, not that anyone would if they'd seen the news. If we were detained and questioned for days, as I suspected we would be under the circumstances, we'd at least have food and shelter and time to maybe scrape together some sort of plan while the media buzz died down and we were cleared of suspicion for Rachel's death.

Even though my brain was trying to work it all out, some other part of me just kept thinking about how Rachel, only six when I'd been fourteen, innocent all the while I suffered and feared, was now dead.

"We couldn't have prevented it," Ashley said, when at last, three days later, she and I got off the bus. It was around midnight, totally black aside from the station lights, and raining hard. "Nothing could have stopped what happened."

I knew she was right. Had Ashley not come with me, she'd be dead. Had I not left Chicago...well, I might've been in that car, though we likely wouldn't have been headed to the bus station.

We left the bus station and headed for the police station. It was exactly as I remembered it, though ten years older.

I introduced myself, and Ashley did the same. Instantly, we were led to a private room where Ashley and I sat together on one side of a table and several officers sat across from us. We were offered water and food, but I only accepted a can of Coke. Ashley hept her hands tight in her lap.

I explained myself as best I could; how the reporters had been hounding me and how it seemed that I was under attack once again. I told them we had arranged for Rachel to take our car home for us while we traveled on the bus, but had no idea someone would attack it. We told them we'd just seen the story on the TV on the bus and gotten off right away. (That was a slight lie; we'd seen the story on our first day on the bus, but had kept going since I knew we could talk to the police here, and anyway, it wouldn't fix what had happened if we'd gotten off; just wasted our bus money and made our tickets useless.)

It didn't seem that the cops could legally do anything to us. They'd just wanted to hear us out. They told us to stay in contact and one of them, a young man, wished us good luck. He added that he'd been the same age we'd been ten years earlier and had been fixated on the story because he'd never heard of any other like it, and had ended up going for the police career because of it.

Outside, Ashley and I lugging our duffel bags, we paused. It was cold, wet, dark, and we were alone. Oddly, I felt safe, though. I knew that in Chicago it had begun to seem that we were attacked at every turn, but Chicago was miles away. Hundreds of miles, maybe thousands. (Who knew? I might've been better at school without the BSC distracting me, but my geography grade had never earned a raise.) In any case, it meant Dahlia was far enough away to be a problem only to my belongings, not to me.

"We should have told the police not to tell the world where we are," I said, when Ashley and I had found seats in a warm, brightly-lit cafe. It was almost deserted, aside from a few young couples out on dates. "If word gets out and Dahlia hears, we'll be no safer here than we were there."

"It's probably illegal for our location to be revealed in this situation," Ashley said. "Everyone knows someone's after you. My ex could still be after me. He did bother to hold a gun to my head not long ago. It's weird how a relationship problem is at all comparable to your problem right now."

"We might not even be safe around regular people," I pointed out. "Someone might be afraid enough of what we could be to kill us. Or they might see Dahlia as some kind of victim."

"How's that possible?"

"Oh, you know modern laws. Well, you've seen how well they work, anyway," I said. "A man rapes and kills his girlfriend and while she's portrayed as the instigator by wearing a skirt, he's put into protective custody to keep someone from hurting him in retaliation. Does that make any sense? Should he suffer for what he did? Should she be made out to be the bad guy? Of course not. But a lot of people see criminals who've done very bad things as people who just suffer from some sort of mental disorder. They see those criminals as sick, as victims. I personally think it's because people don't want to believe that some people are just evil and that everyone's capable of crime. Even awful crimes, like Dahlia's."

"So people might think Dahlia's just suffering from some sort of mental illness and therefore shouldn't be punished?" Ashley looked shocked. "Don't people ever think? Someone who has a place where people can be kept prisoner and tortured in crazy ways for weeks isn't just sick, they're mental. And they can't possibly be entirely unaware of what they're doing. Dahlia didn't always look crazy; she had brushed hair and clean skin and new clothes and she had to have been eating, too. That meant she was aware, which means she knew everything she did. She's not innocent in any way."

"I know. But that whole 'innocent until proven guilty' thing speaks in favor of the criminals, doesn't it? It's good for the actual innocent people, but there aren't many of those left in this world." I hesitated as the waiter brought my plate of fish and chips. "If the system was based on a 'guilty until proven innocent' way of justice, maybe there'd actually be some justice. Fewer criminals walking the streets before trials, maybe fewer crimes commited, maybe people even being dissuaded from doing bad things."

We sat in silence for a moment, and then, "Closing time. Everyone finish up."

"Guess we can't stay here all night," Ashley said. "What do you think? Should we find the bus station and see if there are any seats left on the next bus?"

I shook my head. "I'm too tired. I'll fall asleep trying to figure out where we're going. Let's find someplace to sleep tonight and tomorrow, we should leave. Keep moving, not staying anywhere long."

"Motel?" Ashley asked, as we gulped down what was left of our food and left the diner. "Did we bring money for things like that?"

"Yes, but I have another idea."

"Will you tell me about it, or is it a surprise because you're not even sure it's a good idea?"

"I'm not sure it's a good idea, but I might as well tell you. This is Stoneybrook, and from everything I know, Kristy still lives here. If there's anyone I feel like having taken out, it's Kristy, so hopefiully if something happens, it's after we leave." That wasn't quite true. I had to know if she was still depressed about the end of her club, if she was against me, if she remembered me, if she'd seen the news, if she was even still here. I was shockingly curious.

"Claudia, for one thing, joking about having people taken out isn't cool. Not now, not for us, not here. For another, Kristy could be as much a reporter as Mallory is and twice as stubborn about getting something from you, as she always was. And something I didn't even consider yet is that those who are after us could have paid any of your old friends to tell them or take us out themselves if we go to them."

"That's true," I replied slowly, not sure if I'd thought of that yet myself or not. It was odd; at a time when I needed more than ever to remember things, I couldn't. "But I want to try, anyway."

"I hope you aren't reverting back to your BSC-era mentality and thinking Kristy the Great will somehow manage to save you and stop the insanity," Ashley said, looking at me much like I was a child.

I glared at her. "Ashley, just come with me, okay? You won't be safe just standing here, in this neighborhood."

"What you mean to say," she said, as she followed me, "is that nothing I can say will stop you from seeking out your old boss and idol even though there's a good chance it's a really bad idea?"

"Exactly."

. . . .

I knew from a little contact with Jessi that Kristy had moved. When we reached the address I'd been given, I was less certain than I had been, mainly because the house was dark.

I walked up to it and knocked, anyway. I knew it was late and that if she was here, she'd likely not be too happy to get a surprise visit from out-of-towners like this, but if she wasn't, I'd sure surprise some strangers. And, maybe, accidentally leave them as targets.

The door opened after a few presses of the doorbell button, and a shirtless man in baggy flannel pajama pants, his feet bare, answered the door. He looked sleepy, a little cranky, defensive, and oddly familiar.

"Can I help you?"

"Possibly. I'm looking for Kristy. Is she here?"

"Only technically. See that headstone?" He gestured to the garden at the corner of the front yard, which was a big curcular patch of flowers nestled into a weeping willow tree, a headstone centerpiece lit up by solar lights. "Shh. She's sleeping," he added sarcastically.

"Who the hell are you?" I snapped. "This isn't funny! Where's Kristy?"

"She died three years ago," the man said, and flicked on the porch light. "Look, lady-_Claudia?"_

I held a hand up to my forehead to see better, though the man still stood in the dark entrance to the house. I could make out solid muscles and a hairless, broad chest and shoulders, and a tattoo of a heart with a big 'K' in it on his left bicep. But his face was a mystery, until he stepped into the rain and his face was in the light.

I still didn't know him. "Yes, I'm Claudia, an old friend of hers. I know I've been in the news, but I swear, I'm not looking for trouble."

The man looked closely at me. "Claudia Kishi. You don't remember me? I know my accent has faded, but if _ah tolked lack thiz_, would it help?"

I hesitated. "Logan Bruno?"

The man nodded. "Kristy and I made our relationship official a week or two after Mary Anne left. I realize I cheated on her, but we were fourteen, and not exactly in a marriage. Kristy and I got pregnant at fifteen, and our son is now eight. She died when he was five in a shooting in Mexico, some drug-related thing, when she was there for a softball tour. Want to come in?"

Dazed, Ashley and I both did. Maybe part of Kristy's loss of enthusiasm was because she'd started seeing her best friend's boyfriend, and her friend moved away, too. I'd always thought of her as more loyal than that. Then again, pregnant at fifteen? Where'd her persistent sense of responsibility gone?

We sat down in the warmth of the lit kitchen and Logan looked us over. He looked great; very handsome, long-ish blonde hair, warm eyes. I didn't know for sure how Ashley and I looked, but we'd been on a bus for a while and likely didn't look or smell great.

"So, she died," I said, shocked by the news. That meant at least two of our members were gone. Stacey and Kristy. Two of the original members.

Logan looked sad. "Yes. She left something for you, though, and I didn't know for sure how to contact you. Nobody around here seemed to know where you'd gone, and when I heard you were in Chicago, I started looking for ways to message you, but half the time the phone number was wrong or disconnected and none of your profiles that I came across online would let non-friends message you. I tried sending a few friend requests," he added, "but maybe the sites glitched and they never went through."

I shrugged, too. "Maybe."

Logan left and returned quickly with a small white envelope, the flap simply tucked inside. I opened it as Logan and Ashley prepared the living room for us to sleep in. I was curious. Had Kristy taken all of her secrets to the grave with her, or did this letter tell me everything?

Her handwriting had hardly changed. It was a little less loopy whenever the letter had been written, though.

_To: Claudia  
I'm so sorry for everything that happened. I know that when you needed a friend, I wasn't there for you. I know I didn't help in any way, maybe even making things worse. I know that if you are reading this, I'm likely not around to tell you these things myself, so I had to tell you somehow. Writing this isn't easy, and I'm not much of a writer-that was always Mal's thing, and she's making use of it now-but I feel as though I have to. Too much was left unresolved between us, considering we were friends.  
For one thing, I did poison those dog treats I gave you. I didn't know what you needed them for, and had I known it would have ended up in a situation like that, when instead of Ashley at your side it should have been me, I wouldn't have done it. I have to thank you for not incriminating me. Or did you? It's funny; I'm really not that old but my memory's gone. In any case, I don't recall ever being in jail.  
I poisoned them, I guess, because I figured you'd just use them in some kind of art project and it'd never matter. But if not, I was hoping you'd get into trouble and come crawling back to me for help since I'd always been able to help before. Everything I had was slipping away; please don't hate me for trying to keep a hold of what little I could. I wanted you to need my help, need me; and maybe you'd feel connected again and want to help me make sure the BSC stayed running._

Hadn't I been the one to run the BSC all by myself while she did...whatever?

_I know it was stupid. I was just a dumb kid. I know it was wrong.  
I also cheated on Bart Taylor all those years ago, with Logan. You probably know this by now, as I left this letter with him. I got pregnant two years ago and gave birth to a son not so long ago. If you didn't know any of this or you got this letter some other way, please don't think badly of Logan. He didn't have to be with me, but he did, though I admit to instigating it. I guess Mary Anne just thinks they drifted apart because of the distance between them._

"Claudia, are you hungry? Should I make some sandwiches, soup, anything?"

"Sure, sounds good."

_I don't know what's happened in your life to bring you to the moment when these words are being read; am I dead? Did someone kill me because I used to know you? I'm not trying to say anyone would, but I guess it could happen. I saw the news, and it was crazy. I hope you're okay and can forgive me for everything I did (and should have done but didn't) years ago. I hope you're doing well and coping nicely. I hope we can still be friends.  
Love, Kristy_

I felt my eyes well up as I read that, but by the time our late-night meal was ready, I felt fine. I felt very sad and forgiving and forgiven and wishing life hadn't turned out as it had, or at least that I'd kept my friends closer to me, but I couldn't change it. All I could do was wish and forgive.

We talked with Logan until we'd done eating, and then he had to go to bed. He had to work the next day. Ashley read Kristy's letter, but didn't comment. I was glad; she hadn't been as close to Kristy as I had and therefore, I felt, didn't have an opinion that mattered. They hadn't gotten along well, anyway, and since the letter was to me, it was how I took it that mattered.

Anyway, we were exhausted, so we stretched out and fell asleep.

. . . .

Kristy was dead. Stacey was dead. My life had been shrunken in the past; a life so big and full of fun and people and memories and laughter and work had been shrunken down to the absolute basics; pain and hunger and fear. I'd started getting it back, and now it seemed that it continued to shrink. I rarely had fun, people were dying off, my memories weren't clear (and most that were clear were of the times I just didn't want to remember) and I felt like I worked all the time. Relaxing took a lot of work, it seemed. And laughter? It was scarce.

But I was pretty used to that. My life had been pretty predictable for the most part, but for a long time, just under twice my lifetime, nothing had been predictable for one day to the next. For a while it had been, sort of; I'd gotten up every day at the same time, gone to work, come home, visited Bobbi, eaten, slept, showered, and done what I had to do. It had seemed complacent and boring, but I loved it, because I knew it could be so much worse.

* * *

**Author's Note: For chapters 12 and 13, I wrote a total of about 10,500 words. Wow. I was trying to keep each chapter at approximately 3,500 words so there'd sort of be a regular, consistent length, but 12 had 4368 words and 13 had 6256! (I've been uploading incomplete chapters to the Document Manager on so I could see how many words there were! Clever, eh?) Anyway...the next chapter is an alternate POV chapter-and going by the order written so far, it's a Dahlia chapter! :D**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15  
****Dahlia**

I was sick of confinement. I'd grown up wealthy and in a world of restraint, where for the sake of sophistication and dignity and reputations and appearance we couldn't be normal people; running around screaming as kids or going on dates as teens. (We could date if it was a boy like the boss's son or someone else 'worthy' that our parents had picked.)

I could have been restrained further after my mother wound up pregnant after some wild night at the bar while Dad worked overtime. But my twin raised the kid as her own, though she was only my age. Barely teenagers ourselves and already she was burdened with our mother's whim-based progeny, conceieved by people too drunk to know what they were doing past the moment.

I'd then been free. My mother worked hard with her career, probably to avoid her baby and the looks of her better-knowing teenagers. My sister was concerned with baby formula and diapers while I was becoming interested in eyeshadow and lipstick. (Some might see me as the normal one, since anyone might have thought my sister had gotten pregnant at fourteen and hadn't aborted.)

But I was far from normal. Something was wrong with me. Had the pressures of life and puberty and then my family's sudden plunge into chaos made me crack, or had I been born to terrorize the world? Whatever had happened, I _had_terrorized the world. When my crimes made the news, other countries feared me. Some had gotten instantly defensive and made sure I'd never be allowed into that country. My own country did what they always did, though less so since I was a teenager: they gave me a slap on the wrist and sent me to jail for ten years.

For crying out loud, even I knew I deserved worse.

I'd been confined in a maximum-security prison for only one decade. I'd been confined in this less-secure prison for two weeks.

That didn't bother me at first. I'd grown up with so much, and hating it all, that I longed for total simplicity. Only the basics. Enough food and water and air and space, enough warmth in the winter and enough wind in the summer. I had reduced hundreds of others to their basics; not just stripping bodies of skin and bone and muscle, but also minds of sanity and bodies of food and air and water and warmth.

I'd done terrible things in the pursuit of simplicty and revenge. Simple revenge, too. Killings, beatings, pain. That was all...well, almost cliche revenge. It happened in every movie, didn't it? How uncreative.

I'd had everything, and then nothing, and I loved it. Having everything and then nothing would bother most people, especially since it hadn't just beed my freedom and posessions that I'd lost. I'd lost people, too, and respect. And maybe my mind. That part hadn't been intentional. I hadn't wanted to lose everything.

But now I was about to gain something back. Freedom.

I didn't deserve to have a family, or belongings, or freedom. Those were luxuries, not necessities. I could survive on my own, with nothing but my body in my posession and nowhere to go, nothing to do. I could entertain myself for hours in a room with nothing and nobody else; just me in handcuffs on a floor in a room with bare white walls, a bare white door, no windows, no furniture. Sensory deprivation. And yet, the last thing I needed or deserved, I was regaining.

It was odd. I'd longed for simplicity all my life, and after all I'd done to the world, I was forced into the most basic place there was. It was almost like a reward or something.

Someone knocked at my door and I heard the knob rattle as a key turned inside it. "Meeting."

I followed them down the hallway. I didn't glance outside as we passed windows, nor eye doors to see if they were locked. I had escaped from prisons before, both metaphorical prisons and actual ones. I kept my hands clasped behind my back, where I knew the guard following me could see them, his hand on his gun, and stared ahead of me at the guard leading the way.

These meetings sucked. We all had to sit down and talk about our feelings and experiences and hopes and dreams and goals. And our thoughts.

_Somehow, I doubt they'll think that my considering this imprisonment is a reward is forward-thinking progress._

"Dahlia, why don't you start this time?" the nurse-like woman in the green scrubs said cheerfully, as she clapped her hands once for attention as though it was naptime in preschool.

"I feel I've made real progress," I start, not because it's true, but because I know they want to hear it. I know they'll sit me down for extra sessions with a psychologist if I don't. They can't possibly imagine what my life has been like; they don't know how strongly I feel about things, how unstoppable I was. I doubt half of these nurses were half my age when I was committing crimes. The guards look older, but not much. I keep talking, not making sense to myself since this doesn't matter. Do they really think the past will be erased just becase I'm behaving now? Do they think it'll change the future? Fate will play out as it does. My sitting here telling them I no longer feel the urge to do terrible things because I don't want to be here doesn't work for me. I don't care where I am. What's left for me beyond these walls? I have nothing. Some others here likely don't want to be here and will say anything to get out. They likely don't care anymore either about anything. When you have nothing, who cares anymore what you lose? These nurses, what do they know? I'm just a long number to them, and a statistic. Just another slightly crazy person who once gave in to the urges everyone has but pretends they don't and then act superior to those of us who admitted they weren't as "human" as humanity liked. To the nurses, I'm just part of their job; not a person, but just a way to get paid. And anyway, who cares? Maybe they have something beyond these walls.

After I've finished talking, telling them I don't feel anything (which is true) I sit back. I know this will make them send me to the psychiatrist and they'll try to get me to feel something, by showing me pictures from my childhood and maybe the video of my mother's funeral which was the only consolation I'd ever gotten, and say, "See? You feel things!" if I cry or laugh or look at all emotional or reminiscent. Then they'll send me on my way. That occasional little pat on the shoulder to tell me I'm still a human with potential makes me laugh, when I'm alone. What do they think will happen? Of course I have emotions. I just don't _care_. I realize that's what I should have said. How can you make an uncaring person care? It's a lot harder than making someone _feel_something. All you have to do is throw hot water on them, and they'll feel it. Poke them in the eye, they'll feel that.

But maybe intentionally, avoiding paperwork, the nurses think I've just said that I no longer feel anything in the way of urges to kill and torment. They smile and clap.

Back in my cell, I sit on the bed and look at the wall. It bothers them that I do this. Most prisoners here are experiencing the most freedom they've had in their crime-ridden lives and are eager for everything; fresh air on a walk around the yard, dessert after dinner, everything the higher-security prisons didn't allow. Most prisoners walk around anxiously in their cells, filled with energy and longing and want. Some exercise in their cells, bigger than their cells in proper prisons, and play jokes on each other. Things are relaxed here, but not totally. Just enough to make everyone annoying and relaxed enough to be cheerful. It bothers them that I don't eye the doors and windows, eager for every glance of freedom I can snatch. They don't see when I look out my cell window, though I do it rarely. What's to see? Nobody will come visit me, nobody will come bringing congratulatory gifts and cards, nobody out there wants anything to do with me.

Actually, nobody in here does, either. The nurses and guards are paid to bother with me. Some look at me harshly, knowing what I've done, hating me. Some look at me with pity, knowing I was technically a child. Most look at me with a mixture of things; disgust, fear, wonder.

Nobody understands here. People are worried of their own capabilities and I'm a constant reminder that anyone can cross that single, skinny line between right and wrong and the skinner line between wrong and very wrong. They think having separated cells, total privacy and human-contact-isolation will be hard on us. Maybe to the more social inmates, it is. For me, a loner with nothing who had no prior privacy, it's perfect.

I can sense that someone is looking in at me. I know they're scribbling things on a notepad. Mainly, that I'm still in my cell, but also, that I'm back to staring at the wall, exactly what I was doing before the meeting. They think I'll change. I decide to do something different after a while to shake things up for them and lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I wonder sometimes if the person who had this cell before I did spent as much time giving the room their full attention. Not that my thoughts don't wander as the many hours pass.

When supper comes, there's a knock at the door. A nurse brings it, but I'm never oblivious to the armed guard standing just beyond the door, perhaps thinking he or she is out of sight, out of mind. They wait for me to overpower the nurse and bolt into the hall, where forty rounds will be embedded in my skull before I can say, "What, no fries?"

The tray is set on the foot of the bed. Like most things, the bed is bolted to the floor. The half-bathroom is just a sink and toilet in a corner behind the door, in relative privacy. There's no other place to put the tray. I don't care. I don't move until a few moments have passed once my door is closed and I'm alone again. Then I lift the foil and look at the contents of the compartments of the tray. It looks like chicken, peas, potatoes, and a brownie. The juice box is on its side. The food is hot, the juice cold. The combination hurts, as I was in jail while my wisdom teeth came in. I'd been allowed emergecy medical care only. The pain in my mouth was left untreated. I hoped they'd be able to fix it soon. The pain was often terrible, though I never let on that I could have cried. I never cried, never showed emotion. I liked for people to see what was real about me. If the nurses saw me as an emotionless, cold killer, it meant they had a reason to come to work other than breaking up food fights and the resulting riots. If the other inmates saw me as a criminal, they'd remember that we weren't at summer camp and that they'd done something bad enough to end up in the same place as me.

I'm not sure what the guards see. A threat? A kid who cried out for attention? A number? A job? Do they see past the orange jumpsuit and my shaved head? Do they see that I was once innocent? Do they ever think that at one time, I had to learn the alphabet and how to count and write? Do they know I had a mother and father and a sister? Would they care if I'd had a similar life as they did?

Maybe. After all, I turned out badly and if they're prison guards, they likely see themselves as the good guys and I'm nothing more than a criminal. It's more likely, though, they they never think about me as more than that. My crossing the lines I'd crossed meant it could happen to anyone. They likely never think about me because I'd done unimaginable things and for my life and past to be a reality, meant that anyone could go bad, that lines were easily crossed and that humans, no matter how good, were capable of evil.

I wonder sometimes about Bobbi. She was my twin and in the same position I was when things went wrong for me. How did she not succumb? How could my thoughts be so different than those of the person I was born with? And Kerry-how did she turn out? She'd be, what, twelve now? Thirteen? Had Bobbi held out in the parental role long enough to spite me and then stick Kerry in a foster home, or had they stuck together against the world? Had Bobbi changed, maybe gotten married and had kids? Did Kerry remember anything about her intended life or had a foster family made her think they were everything she'd ever had?

I ate enough to satisfy my stomach and the people who would undoubtedly see if I was eating, and went backt to staring. Except, this time, my brain didn't keep thinking as it had been.

Nor was it blank. An image flashed into my head and froze, then moved, almost artistically, as though it was the beginning of a movie. The image was of Bobbi and I standing side by side, looking in the bathroom mirror. Then, uncontrollably, Bobbi was talking. It wasn't a memory, since the people I was seeing were our ages now. Oddly, Bobbi was in a prison suit, same as I was.

_"Dahlia, you were wrong," she said. "Kerry was never to blame for anything. Mom was the one who cheated on Dad, and yet you never accused her of wrongdoing, instead blaming the only person in the situation who was totally innocent."_

_"Kerry was the only evidence of Mom's affair," my reflection replied. "If Kerry hadn't been born, or just, you know, died after birth, maybe it all would have worked out."_

_"Dad would have died, anyway, Dahlia, and Kerry was born healthy. Mom favorited you, remember? You were her perfect little flower. Ironic, isn't it, that the flower of the family was the one to uproot it all? I know you favorited Mom, too. She could do no wrong. You seemed to think it was Kerry's fault she was conceieved. She didn't do that herself. She didn't just decide to be born. Mom was the one who went to that bar, and she was the one who draped herself all over that guy who took advantage of her in that state. Mom didn't tell Dad and she decided to keep the baby. Even if Mom had gotten an abortion, she still cheated on Dad and undermined their marriage. It's still not right. Dad never deserved that."_

_"Oh, you always took his side just because he liked you better," my reflection snapped._

_"Get over it. They're both dead now, don't you get that? Mom was wrong, and Dad was the one who paid! You were wrong and hundreds of people paid! Don't you think it's time to start being right and stop making other people pay for your mistakes? Can't you see that it doesn't do any good?"_

_"I've never been a do-good person."_

_"Dahlia, listen. Carefully. Mom did something wrong. Dad deserved better but got nothing better. You did things that were wrong and the people you hurt didn't deserve what they got. Everyone deserves better than what they got, and in your case, what you got should have been eighty years in jail with a shared cell so whoever you shared with could beat you every day."_

_"Oh, look who's talking crazy and wild now?"_

_"But you didn't. You got ten years in jail, a year to adjust to relocation here, and in a while you could be back on the street. If you do anything wrong, you'll end up right back in here. I just have one thing to tell you: if you do ANYTHING wrong, ever again, you will pay for it. You've been a horrible person, and I don't care if I sound just like you when I say you deserve the worst. And you'll get it soon enough."_

Then it was over. I could see my room again, and move.

Would Bobbi hurt me? Would the general public, knowing what I'd done? Would Claudia? If anyone had survived that bomb blast and remembered me, would they come after me? I figured I was safe enough here in jail, since nobody would want to come here to terrorize me, but would the guards who saw me for what I'd once been stop someone if they came to give me what I'd earned?

A less-liked part of my mind rose to the surface, conspiratorially whispering that nobody who was dead could hurt me, and urged me to try.

I pushed it down, but the thought lingered. I got up and went to the window, feeling hot, and started to open it. My reflection looked at me, and I saw Bobbi's accusing eyes staring back. I opened the window, pushing the glass away, and started to turn, eager to escape those eyes.

But I froze and locked eyes with someone coming up the visitor's pathway, escorted by guards. It was someone who looked just like me. So much so that had she been in an orange suit, she'd have been me.

Was she coming to drive home the point that I was a terrible person? Was she coming to warn me that even if I was someday free, I'd never be free of what I'd done and the punishment I'd someday get? She wasn't religious, but in this case, I didn't doubt she believed I'd go to hell.

Bobbi was coming. How coincidental could it be that I'd see her in my head and then happen to go to the window just as she was coming here? It wasn't like she'd ever come to see me before.

I doubted she was coming to warn me. She may not have been violent in the past, but she'd never been passive. And I knew, with total certainty, that she hated me. I'd listened only to her talk at my trial.

I glanced at my door, saw a nurse peeking in, and smiled and waved. The uncharacteristic behavior must have shocked him. The pen flew across the paper, and the man hurried off. Taking my chance, suspicion overthrown, I dove for the right corner of the head end of the bed and unearthed a long knife from the dust and plaster half-concealing an abandoned mouse hole.

I zipped my prison suit closed, concealing the knife between by breasts.

* * *

**Author's Note: Second chapter in a day...not so pleased with the "vision" scene, but I had to sort of do it. She just may be psychotic enough to hallucinate and have visions. Or is she psychotic? Maybe just lonely and imaginative? The nurse likely just thinks she's happy to see someone she once knew. So what's Bobbi doing? Stay tuned, haha, will write more soon, am happy to be back! Sorry if this sucks :s**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

"My life has turned into a true Cinderella story," Bobbi said, as I huddled into my oversized sweater in a corner of the bus station. Ashley was inside, stuffing her knapsack with bottles of water and Coke and chocolate bars and chips for the road, and I was outside, where in the wind and rain and cold barely kept off me by the roof, I had a little privacy. "Kerry told us she'd been feeling like she isn't a part of the family for a while, and Michael's dong his best to make her feel like she fits-as long as the twins aren't around. When they are, Michael treats Kerry like she's six to keep the twins from making a big deal about how much later she can stay up and just generally act like the evil stepsisters. Michael plays the step-parent in this, I guess. Kerry and I don't really know what to do."

"Wow," I said. "Is Kerry happier?"

"Worse, I think. Michael's tried being more fatherly, it seems, but the twins have caught on to the fact that Kerry isn't really their sister; she's their aunt, and it's all just complicated. It was worse trying to explain to them that Kerry's only my half-sister because her father and mine weren't the same one."

"Wow," I repeated, eager for the details and not wanting to interrupt. I sure missed Bobbi and Kerry and the family.

"And did I tell you I told Michael all about the stuff that happened ten years ago? There are no more secrets now, but he's unhappy again because we kept something so huge a secret. I guess he's afraid that if I could hold that back, what else could I lie about?"

I nodded before remembering that she couldn't see me. "Oh...yeah, I guess so."

She sighed. "But I had to tell him, because tomorrow I'm going to go visit Dahlia."

I almost choked on the Reese cup I'd been putting in my mouth. "You're what?"

"Going to go visit Dahlia," Bobbi repeated. "She'll be behind bars and guarded, as will I, so I'm not scared. I don't want to go," she added, "but I have to know. If she's still insane, I want to pack up and move away before she hits the streets again, and do it before the kids start back to school, too."

"Oh, that's right, school's out for the summer, isn't it?" I asked, thinking back to the book report I'd helped Kerry with. It explained why there were so many kids walking around in Stoneybrook.

"Yep," Bobbi agreed. She hadn't missed the fact that I hadn't commented further on Dahlia. "Anyway, where are you?"

"Stoneybrook, but I'm about to board a bus for nowhere," I joked. "Actually, my destination isn't known yet."

"Claudia...I know you don't want to be here right now," Bobbi said, "but bouncing around aimlessly won't help. It could be two years before Dahlia's walking among us again. And she might even be a better person now than she was."

"Maybe."

"And if you need anything-money, a place to stay, a ride-call me," Bobbi added. "I can't finance a life of road trips, but I can certainly help."

She didn't mean that she couldn't afford a lifetime of trips, but that she simply shouldn't. I understood. "Thank you."

I didn't mention Bobbi's plan to Ashley, who would have probably thrown a fit at hearing Dahlia's name. Instead, I took some of the snacks to lighten her load and we waited together.

. . . .

"How did it go?" I asked, when Bobbi called the next evening just as the sky outside was darkening and the bus was rolling into a station. Almost everyone (aside from a mother and baby asleep at the back, plus Ashley, intent on a sketch) got off, so I felt okay about talking on the phone.

"Not bad, I think," was the reply. "When I first got there, she was waiting for me in a visitor's cell, which is all glass and she's chained to her side and I've got guards all around me, so there's not a lot of privacy. Anyway, the very first thing she says to me is, 'Hi! Long time no see!' It was almost like she wasn't even aware she'd been in prison."

"Wow," I said, which was my standard reply. (It used to be 'What?')

"We ended up talking seriously about the past, and I ended up telling her a few things," Bobbi added. "I remember everything we said. I doubt I'll ever forget it. She had gotten sort of weird and said things like, 'It's odd, isn't it? Violence is so easy.' I said, 'How so?' and she just said, 'Well, you don't have to think about it. You run on instinct and feeling and adrenaline, your heartbeat pounding in your ears so hard you can hear it and feel your eyes pulsating and your whole body convulses with every heartbeat. There's no logic in violence, and it can hardly be screwed up.'"

"'But it got you into trouble,'" Bobbi had replied, and Dahlia had just laughed. So Bobbi persisted. "'Most people control their violent feelings. If you don't, it controls you, and you end up in a place you never come back from. You become nothing; it's all that's left of you. Don't you feel empty, like there's nothing else anymore? Do you feel like there's no place for you in civillization?' Claudia, to be honest, I took some of that from _Star Trek - Voyager._ But she didn't know that. It was so creepy, because she looked at me, suddenly solemn, and she nodded. She said, 'That's _exactly _how it is. How did you know?'"

I felt a chill and shivered.

"When I mentioned that thing about there being nothing else left of her, that she was empty and inhuman because she'd let violence control her so much, and about not having a place in society and having nothing left out here...I don't know, it was like we connected, just like when we were younger, back when we used to finish each others' sentences and say the same things at the same time in the same voice."

This time, my shiver was hard enough that even Ashley, sketching in the light of the station outside, looked at me.

"I don't know, Claudia, but I think...maybe...she's changed. I know she's definitely still freaky, talking as she was and laughing about imprisonment, but I can see her in eyes that things are different in her head. It's almost like she's a totally different person than I used to know."

"Don't forget that it'd be a good thing," I reminded her dryly.

She laughed slightly. "Yes, for sure. I still wouldn't want my kids getting near her, but I think she's changed. I think I'd like to go back and see her again."

"Really?" I wasn't sure how I felt about that. I did know, though, that an uneasiness was settling in me, and it felt like I'd swallowed a rock. It was a heaviness in my stomach and a tightness in my throat.

"Well, sure. She's my sister, and she was my friend, a long time ago. Maybe she needs someone to be there for her now for her to change completely into the kind of aunt the twins could actually see someday."

"You'd want them to meet her?" I squeaked. "I mean...I know she's your sister, but...I don't know, she's...she's Dahlia! She's a terrorist!"

This time, it was Ashley's movement, a simultaneous shiver and flinch, that I saw in the darkness.

"I know! But for us, it was like three months and everything had changed! Ten years, and Dahlia could be just as safe and trustworthy as you are!"

I didn't like being, in any way, compared to Dahlia, whether she was a changed person or not. "Bobbi...I know it's hard, but you have to see past familial ties sometimes. You won't always see a girl in a sundress at a family barbecue, you know. Sometimes you'll see cages and chains. I think of her and it's _all _I see." It wasn't true. I also saw blood and blackness and fluorescent lights and bars. But I didn't want to tell her that. Bobbi was my friend, and Dahlia was her sister. If Bobbi wanted to keep visiting, fine. I'd just have to hope she was safe.

"I remember how she was," Bobbi admitted, "and she's changed. Even if she's not psychotic anymore, which I'll admit here and now that it is a big 'if' and a risk to everyone if I'm wrong, she's not the same. I have this one picture, I'm wearing a dress that looks like my father's army uniform and we're both saluting the camera. I look like a giggly little kid and he's trying to keep a straight face, wearing his uniform and preparing to leave for a year. Dahlia's in the background, in front of a giant plane, making a goofy face. Even Mom's in on it. taking the picture but holding her hand out so that it looks like she's holding all three of us between her thumb and index finger. It was hilarious. I sure miss those days."

I giggled, too, as people slowly started trickling back towards the bus.

"And when Dahlia and I were twelve and going out for the soccer team back home, we found out that the school only had a boys' team. Dahlia, so bold, walks up to the coach and asked, 'Excuse me, but are the players required to catch or throw with their genitals?' The coach almost choked, the whole team fell silent aside from some snickering, and the parents all watched. I was blushing so hard, I thought my head had spontaneously combusted. He said, 'No,' looking confused, so Dahlia grinned and said, 'Great! Then I don't see why it should matter if we're girls on the boys' team!' Parents started clapping, especially mothers, and the whole team was laughing. We were the only girls to make it on the team that yer, but the next year, there were more girls trying out than boys!"

I giggled again. Dahlia sounded so normal. What had happened? It was hard to imagine her as anything but the fearsome, bloodthirsty bitch I'd known her as. Then again, technically and scientifically, she was human. She'd had to learn how to talk and stand up and feed herself and walk and run and climb, just like any kid, and learn to add and subtract and read and write. How had so much gone so wrong, so fast?

"I...can't say I'd be comfortable with it," I said, "no matter what. But I also know that nothing I could every say would dissuade you. Just be careful."

"I will be. Claudia, just...trust me, okay? I don't want anyone to get hurt, so I have to trust my instincts here and sort of see for myself what she's like. I promise, it's not like I'm going to spring her out of jail and keep her at my house until we're old and gray and wrinkly."

"Okay." I wasn't convinced.

"She's my _sister,_" Bobbi added, in a convincing tone, though whether she was trying to convince herself or me, I didn't know.

"Yes."

The call didn't last much longer. I had the feeling that things between Bobbi and I would be strained for a while.

I fell asleep shortly after that, but not before the last few passengers straggled on and the bus left. I remembered watching sleepily, feeling blank, as the last light in the sky faded and the scenery became only the occasional flash of light from a farmhouse or factory.

By morning, Ashley was in a bad mood. I surmised that it was because I'd mentioned Dahlia the previous evening, and in her uncomfortable sleep in an awkward position, resulting in a stiff, sore neck and back, she had nightmares.

"Where are we headed?" she asked, sounding cranky, as I bought a cinnamon bun and cream soda for breakfast.

"To a table?"

"I meant in terms of travel," she snapped. "We can't just wander endlessly."

"That was my plan. You didn't ask when you decided to follow me."

She shot me a look, and headed for the washrooms. I sat down and finished my whole breakfast, plus read the local daily paper, before she returned, looking as though she felt only slightly better.

"I'm sorry, but I want to go home," she said. "I suppose I assumed that you had some sort of master plan and intended to leave Chicao to stay in one place somewhere else for a week or something, kind of like a little vacation. Not bounce around aimlessly, without a schedule."

I shrugged. "We can't be tracked as easily this way."

"We can't live this way, either. And I don't just mean financially. For crying out loud, Claudia, the whole point of leaving was to have a little stability! Travelling for three days just to stay a single night in some foreign place and then getting back on a bus for four days is just...I don't know, a little crazy! Maybe a little more than crazy; it's...defeating the purpose of the trip!"

"One more night," I said, "right here. Tomorrow we'll go back."

She looked at me, eyes hard. "You sure?"

"Why not? Bobbi's tense with me, you're upset, and we're running out of money. If we buy two tickets home and pay for a room for tonight, we'll have enough to maybe order a pizza for supper. Besides, with Bobbi visiting her sister in jail now, I can be slightly more sure that the prison hasn't lied about Dahlia being where she should be just to avoid a search and bad publicity and paperwork."

"She's visiting that monster?"

"That was my reaction, too. But she is her sister."

"The kind of sister you wish had gotten SIDs or something." Ashley sounded bitter.

I was quiet for a moment, letting Ashley's anger cool, before I said, "Grab a doughnut or something. Then we'll go find a motel to sack out in for a day."

. . . .

Our room was very simple; two single beds, a nightstand between them, and a chair on the far right, beside a long window. On the left bed side, a door to a small bathroom. facing the bed was a TV stand and miniature refrigerator. Nice and simple.

"Not bad," Ashley said, "but if you don't mind, I'd like to take a nap now."

"Even though you've only been awake for an hour and a half?"

"I didn't sleep well, thanks to that phone call you got last night," was the reply, "and anyway, I think my seat was broken. It was really uncomfortable."

"Okay." I shrugged. "I'm going to go look around a little, and sort of enjoy my last day as far from Dahlia as money allowed."

Ashley hesitated as I dug through my bag for my wallet. "I'm sorry I was such a grump this morning, Claudia, but it felt reasonable at the time to not...keep going," she said. "I didn't mean to cut your trip short, especially since I was a tagalong."

"But you were right," I said, not feeling particularly friendly, "and it was reasonable not to keep trying to get away from something as inescapable as the end of a vacation and as futile a fight it is to escape Dahlia." It wasn't really Dahlia herself we were trying to outrun, it was the memories and fear we couldn't let go of. Unfortunately, putting distance between us hadn't helped at all. It had just stretched my friendships to their limits. Kind of like Silly Putty when you flatten it out and stretch it in every direction until it's so thin it has holes and you can see through the intact areas.

I walked out. I was feeling a bit annoyed; this trip had been mine, and she _had_just decided to come along, pretty much uninvited. For her to be as annoyed and bitter and bossy as she had been, kind of taking charge, was pretty rude and unfair.

Then again, there were reasons. Bobbi had every right to visit Dahlia; they were twins, and yet, Dahlia was a terrorist. She didn't deserve to have a single kind word spoken to her, ever. I saw her as a tormentor. Bobbi saw her as an estranged sister. There was tension all around.

With Ashley, we were roommates and friends. Mostly. She was often a neat freak and health nut and bitter truth and logic kind of person. She and I both hated Dahlia, but she also didn't like Bobbi. Because they were related and looked alike?

It hardly mattered. What did matter was that my world seemed to be decreasing in size even more.

* * *

**Author's Note: There isn't one, really! :D**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17  
**  
"I was thinking I might try and fight Dahlia's release," Bobbi said, "but now I'm not so sure. I know it'll be another twenty to thirty months before she can even get out on strictly-chaperoned day trips, but even so...I don't know. She's just not the same."

"Really?" I asked, not meaning that I believed Dahlia had changed, but that she wouldn't fight a release.

She understood. "Well, yeah. I grew up with a lawyer mother, and I understand a bit of the system myself. In any case, I'll have to think it over."

"How's Michael dealing with things?"

"Oh...well, not very well," Bobbi admitted. "He knows now about everything that happened, which I suppose he didn't then because it was at the time of his mother's passing, and he was constantly taking her to appointments and visiting her and then making funeral arrangements. So anyway, he knows, and he thinks I'm crazy for going to see Dahlia, or even sticking around when she could someday be free."

I personally thought Michael was right about that, but I didn't agree out loud. I sat back and watched as Bobbi gently nudged a sleeping cat off her foot so she could cross her legs.

"Anyway, it seems that maybe Dahlia's looking to better herself," Bobbi added, "and she's starting by looking into religion. I hope she finds something to believe in."

"Can you imagine if she started her own? I bet she would, too, if she felt like nobody believed in her."

"It'd be scary. Religious people have caused all kinds of problems. Someone like Dahlia running wild with it...I don't know. I just picture some dusty, gray-brown apocalyptic scene when I think of what kinds of followers she'd get."

"Yeah."

Silence. I'd been home for a week, back to rather typical routine, and there had been no excitement. My friendship with Bobbi was still strained, there had been no bombings, shootings, or attacks, and I was back to work. Despite Rachel's death, nothing seemed different. Some other kid ran the store on weekends, and the police had talked to Ashley and I both, but aside from setting up extra security all over the place (which they did) there wasn't anything they could do. They'd gotten a lead on the attacking car that had murdered Rachel, but hadn't actually found the car or gotten a license plate number. The only clue was a stupid 'Save a child, shoot a drug dealer' bumper sticker.

"So, I re-set my date for meeting with Mallory and Jessi," I finally said. I hated the silences between us.

"Really? Why?"

"Well, there's a lot of reasons. Part of it's about the past. Part of it's because of Jessi, who seems innocent. Part of it's because she's said Mal won't be as she was last time I saw her. And the biggest reason occured to me today at work. When Mal and I met last time, she said, '_Was she connected to the family you thought was weird?_'" I paused, and let Bobbi catch what I'd said. "I never mentioned that my kidnapper was female."

"That was after Dahlia was mentioned on the news this year about a pending release," Bobbi reminded me. "Couldn't she have seen the broadcast, or looked it up online, or...I don't know, but she's a reporter. She's got sources."

"True as that may be," I said, though it was pretty logical, "Mal was always smart and secretive. She never spoke without thinking over every word, and especially when she wanted to find something out, she had a way of asking totally unrelated questions and getting you to talk. Why would she slip the word 'she' into a sentence without reason, especially with me? She knows I used to know her."

"How she used to be," Bobbi reminded me. "Maybe she doesn't think over things so carefully anymore, especially when confronting someone she once knew."

I sighed. "Maybe. But you know what? I'm still not convinced. I just have this bad feeling about her, like...like maybe she was...there. With Dahlia, at the same time I was. And I just don't think she was a prisoner."

"You mean, she could have been working with Dahlia?"

"We both know anything's possible."

The phone rang, and I flinched. Bobbi answered, and fell silent.

"Okay," she said at last, "sure. Definitely, do that."

I just looked at her. Bobbi's expression indicated amusement and worry as she hung up.

"You were right," she told me. "Totally right. Dahlia did end up doing a little research in religion and came to the conclusion that none of them were for her. But she does want to start one."

"And let me guess-she wants to be worshipped? Wasn't having a thousand people fear her enough to do anything she said just like that?"

Bobbi shrugged. "There's not much she can do from prison, and likely, only the people who are crazy enough to respect her, knowing what she's done, will want anything to do with it. Still, she could so easily be trying to construct an army for herself from jail under the cover of needing beliefs and guidance."

I nodded.

"Did Mallory ever explain how she found you?" Bobbi asked.

"Huh? Oh, you mean the first time?" I thought back. "I...don't think so. I just thought it was so great to hear from an old friend that I didn't even consider it. I guess I more recently just assumed she found me through newspaper connections and maybe news spies."

Bobbi nodded. "When are you meeting Mal and Jessi? And where?"

I was instantly ashamed of the suspicious feeling I got, wondering if she'd pass the info on to Dahlia. Or if maybe she had a transmitting device on her letting Dahlia hear everything we were saying. Not that Bobbi was conspiring; but maybe she hadn't noticed her sister doing something? "Kinsmen East park at three tomorrow," I replied quickly.

She nodded. "Good. Mal probably wouldn't try anything stupid in a place like that. You do know there's a carnival there this weekend, right?"

"There is? I bet there'll be a ton of people."

She nodded. "Let's just hope there are more innocent people and good samaritans there than evil spies and bombers."

. . . .

My plan (not that I really had one) was to ask Mallory outright how she'd found me in the first place. My second question for her was a lot shorter and would appear more simple, but very loaded-"Why?" I wanted to know _why._Why had she been sneaky? Why had she come to me? Why did she of all reporters end up the one I'd have trusted? I knew the answer to the last one, of course, and it was because we'd been friends. But why had she decided to use that against me?

I knew the answer to 'Why now?' A story was always far more sensational if there was some sort of update in the news. Dahlia's release was the perfect time to interview me; people would remember the story, regain interest, and it would attract new viewers to both my current story and the older one.

Plus increase traffic and views on the website, newspaper sales, TV viewers, channel ratings.

But Jessi arrived at the park before Mallory did. "She had to go to the restroom first," Jessi informed me, and then dropped the formal two-adults-reuniting politeness and tackled me, squeezing me hard. "Oh my gosh, Claudia, I'm so happy to see you!"

I laughed and squeezed her back. "I'm happy to see you, too! It's been so long!"

I saw Mallory approaching then, over Jessi's shoulder, and we pulled apart when I stiffened. Mallory had to weave through the crowds between the restrooms and those heading from the parking lot to the games and rides and booths, so we seated ourselves and were talking when Mallory reached us. She, to her credit, was aware that I wasn't feeling so friendly with her and didn't attempt any sort of contact; a hug or handshake or even a wave. She and I both just nodded slightly in acknowledgement, since Jessi was talking. Instant icebreaker.

"...and I saw your profile and just couldn't believe it was you," Jessi was saying, looking at me, "because your hair wasn't done in some side ponytail with some massive barrette, and you weren't wearing green and orange and purple tie-dye anywhere."

I laughed. "That was my teenage style," I said, "and not very appropriate for someone my age. It was hardly appropriate then, either, really."

"So what do you do these days?" Jessi asked. "Professional paintings?"

I laughed again. "Bookstore, actually. Art in my spare time. Not that I have as much as I did, even though I was in school."

"Recently?"

"No, when I was thirteen," I replied, and we laughed. "What about you?"

"Well, I was in a school for special ballet training when I injured my leg," Jessi said, just as I became aware that Mallory hadn't yet said a single word, "and couldn't dance anymore. I lost my scholarship, access to the school, and even a few friends."

"Wow."

"Yeah. My closest friend there was this girl named Marie, and she dropped me as soon as she found out that I couldn't dance. She gave me this total look of disgust and walked off. I never saw her again."

Jessi sniffed suddenly, and I was sure she was about to cry. Mallory, too, looked sympathetic. But Jessi said, "Do you smell corn dogs? I've had a total craving all day. Anyone else want one?"

"Sure, but I'll get them," Mallory said quickly, and hurried off in the direction of the carnival. I had the feeling she was either feeling left out and awkward, or she had to write down what we'd said before there was too much-not that we'd been talking about anything she could publish. It was personal-not that it would stop her-and not worth interest to strangers.

Jessi sat back down and turned to me with a smile.

She seemed okay. So I took a risk. "How did Mallory find me? When I last saw her, I mean. I know I changed my e-mail address and stuff since I was a kid, and I hadn't told her where I lived. We agreed to meet at a cafe, but there was another cafe with the same name in the next town, and I'd sent someone I know over to see if Mal ended up there. But she showed up where I was as though she'd followed me."

Jessi looked surprised. "You didn't tell her it was Chicago? She'd said you told her it was."

I shook my head, but I was suddenly unsure. I had been having a lot of trouble remembering things, which wasn't good considering that almost every situation I was now involved in required me to remember details because they would help result in legal wins and losses. Had I told Mal which MidCity Coffee Maison to meet me at?

I doubted Jessi would know whether or not Mallory had been working with Dahlia or had been a prisoner ten years earlier, so I was glad I didn't have to ask right then. It was a question better left for Mallory. But I found myself somewhat unable to mention it; if I brought it up, wouldn't it just make Mallory want to further the discussion?

Oddly, when Mal returned with corn dogs and Coke and a bag of chips, the conversation included her as naturally as if we were still eleven and thirteen years old and the worst that could happen was getting a pimple or being rejected by a boy or something.

"I do have to say something, which may or may not involve the past," Mal said, and as Jessi made a warning, disapproving sound and I sighed in exasperation, Mal continued. "I was beaten up about three weeks ago. Jessi had just left the house and-yes, I know I lied about knowing where Jessi was all this time," she interrupted herself, looking at me with wounded puppy eyes that would have once had me forgiving her instantly, "but...I don't know, it was weird. It seemed so random. They kicked me around a lot and they were talking on the phone at the same time, but I didn't know why. They didn't say anything to me. I don't know what it did for them."

"That phone call was to me," I realized. "Someone called me and I just heard the sound of someone getting beaten up!"

Mallory looked at me through her bangs and just nodded. "I kind of wondered if it was to you. Interesting things had happened involving you before, and I just didn't see any reason someone would beat me up. Unless it was someone offended by some article I published once or something, or you knowing I was a reporter and trying to warn me off."

"I didn't know," I replied honestly, but she didn't look convinced. We let the subject drop, but it seemed to hang in the air. So after a moment, feeling like I was with Bobbi and trying to cover up and ward off an uncomfortable, uncharacteristic, unconversational silence, I said, "So how was boarding school?"

Mal brightened. "Oh, it was great! I was one of the popular girls for the last two years there. Uncaring about how people saw me, though I guess it was because jealous girls didn't like me and it didn't matter because the cool girls did. Making noise in the library and attracting attention and getting into trouble, but that just seemed to make us seem cooler." She shrugged.

Jessi looked at me as if to say, 'See? She hasn't changed! Still obsessed with all that high-school stuff!'

Mallory kept talking, and Jessi and I half-listened. I just kept looking at her, and she at me. She'd sure grown up. She still had long legs and was thin and graceful, but she walked with a definite limp and didn't walk on her toes anymore, nor walk as lightly. She looked a little taller and heavier, and also, she looked like she was tougher. The strong, silent type, I guessed. Could girls be the strong, silent type? Most BSC members had been the gossiping, makeup-wearing, loud type, who would cry if they thought a boy they liked had dated some other girl or if they saw dog food commercials (that was just Mary Anne, though) or if a rival baby-sitting club started up.

What did she see in me that was different? I knew I didn't dress as I had, but did I look better? Taller, heavier, prettier? Did she think my plain white T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers didn't suit me? Did she look at me and remember homemade jewelry and Jamie Newton and pottery classes and Twinkies, or did she see a face that had been on the news, with lightning-strike-styled hair and haunted, scared eyes?

After a while, the carnival-crazed crowds began to wander back to their cars as the heat of the day settled over the city. Kids with painted faces and cotton candy ran ahead, while tired parents followed, often holding or leading crying, tired children who didn't want to leave. Older couples walked by, men with arms around women in dresses, their hair in buns, both looking as though they'd just experienced a day in their childhood. Young couples walked by, too, the women often looking like they'd been hoping for something more romantic and the men buzzed on sugar and adrenaline.

"Oh, I have to go," Mallory said, checking her watch. She snapped her compact mirror closed as she spoke, her lips a fresh bright red, and looked up at us. "I told Karen I'd be online this evening because she wanted help with an English assignment."

"Karen Brewer?"

Mal nodded. "Yeah. She's in high school, and she loved reading when she was seven, but now, it's some big chore to her."

"You guys know about Kristy, right?"

"I was at her funeral," Jessi said, "and it was such a great ceremony. They played that baseball song and had the Krushers reunite in her honor-"

"Funeral? What?" Mallory asked wildly. "Kristy died?"

"Three years ago," Jessi said, "I think."

"I just found out last week," I told Mallory, trying (and failing) to make her feel better.

"Can you imagine a BSC reunion now? Everything's so messed up," Mal said, sounding truly sad. "Between anorexia and shrinks, it just feels like everything's getting smaller and smaller."

"Exactly," I agreed, thinking about people I'd lost, both to death and to simple lifestyle changes, and of course, the past, which alienated both potential friends and comfort and safety and relaxation and peace of mind.

"This has been fun, though," Jessi said, obviously feeling nostalgic and clinging to memories of a time when our world seemed so big and endless and full of possibilities that we were oblivious to change even as it happened. "We should get together again."

It sounded good to me. As Jessi headed out to get their car started and out of the crowds of other cars and people, Mal turned to me. "I'm so sorry about everything," she said, but I could still see something I didn't trust in her eyes. She wasn't done with me yet, and this day of casual chat had been, in my opinion, something to throw me off. "I lied a lot and tried using you. I'm sorry."

I almost automatically said 'It's okay,' but stopped myself and nodded instead. Changing the subject, I just blurted it out. "Mal, did you know Dahlia somehow? You once accidentally indicated that you knew more than I'd mentioned."

"Well, it did make the news, but...I did know her. I was roped into helping her," Mal said, "but I got out of it as best I could. Still, she was blackmailing me, telling me she had Claire and would kill her if I didn't work with her. It was supposed to be part of your torture, thinking everyone you'd known had turned on you, and although I managed to keep my hands clean enough, she never forgot me, I guess. I assumed my beating was in retaliation for my escape, and that as a reporter with a pen name I'd be safer, but I don't see how she could have gotten someone to do that for her while she's caged."

_That's one thing about Dahlia, though. She has ways. Pursuing religion to make people think she's looking for guidance and forgiveness and a leader when she could just as openly be thinking herself a goddess and recruiting worshippers to do her bidding is clever. Not many would suspect it, preferring to think religion can only be a good thing, just the same as assuming humanity doesn't cross boundaries._

But humanity always crossed boundaries. Humanity itself _lived _on the line between good and bad. It always had, and if even in these modern times people like Dahlia emerged into the world within seconds of someone strong and kind and good like Bobbi, the two born together, then humanity would likely always live on that invisible, easily-crossable line.

* * *

**Author's Note: I realize Claudia's assuming that Dahlia couldn't possibly be up to any good by pursuing religion, but I guess Claudia's got the right to assume that. Also, I know the original BSC books were written in the mid-late 20th century, but because I was only alive for the last nine years of that century, I'll include modern-day 2011-era technology in this. I'm not sure when the BSC members of the original series were born, or how old they'd be today, so this fic sort of, maybe, strays a bit from that. Anyway...sorry for that thing that happens when I italicize words and the space between it and the next word disappears so the text gets smushed together. :s I'm trying to fix it whenever I see it...**

**Credit to reviewers for content in this chapter, including pointing out that Mal had somehow gotten Claudia's info even when nobody else could, the idea for Dahlia pursuing religion, and even the idea of Bobbi appealing Dahlia's release, which was something I'd planned to work with in this but kind of forgot about. Thank you all SO much for every review and idea, I hope you enjoy...and that this hasn't strayed so far from what I may have originally let on about in terms of future happenings in the story that you have gotten disgusted and are too mad at me to read this anymore haha :s**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**  
**Ashley**

_"Ha! And they called Claudia an artist," Dahlia squealed, drawing the knife across the surface. The serrated edge was splattered with red. "Look at this canvas."_

_"Canvas?" another voice asked._

_"Well, sure. This is art," Dahlia said, sweeping her arm down in a circular motion and creating a red arc through a millimeter of her 'canvas.' "It may not make sense to anyone else, so let's just say it's abstract."_

_I glanced up shakily. My head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. My eyes, too. They felt like they had weights on them. Maybe they did. After all that I'd seen done here, nothing was beyond Dahlia's capabilities if she wanted to try something. She thought it was an art class, but I knew it was more like 'scientific' experimentation. Dahlia was barely visible to me, though she probably wasn't that far in front of me. Why? Was it foggy inside, or was my eyesight failing? I was pretty sure my sense of reality and time had already numbed out of existence. Maybe there was dust in my eyes. I didn't doubt it. It felt like I'd been breathing dust all my life. My lungs felt heavy and tight, like I was taking in shallow breaths. It sounded ragged, but while Dahlia was there, I didn't dare cough. It'd alert her to me; she knew I was there, among the others, but sometimes it was like she was totally, one-hundred percent fixated on what she was doing, like a kid mesmerized by a colorful cartoon on TV or learning how to do something the first time and determined to be perfect._

_The second voice had sounded familiar somehow, but I didn't know why. I strained as hard as I could, pushing away from the wall to see better. I think I moved about an inch, and it hurt like crazy. I peered out as far as I could, and caught sight of a flash of curly red hair, glasses, and freckles on a face in the shadows._

_The canvas didn't move. It wasn't clear to me whether or not it was still alive. Bright red, shiny trails swirled over the skin, with smudges, drips, and puddles forming. It was a mess-if it was art, it was kindergarten-level at best, though normal five-year-olds can't reach the knives or have homicidal thoughts. Though Dahlia was likely an exception. Anyway, I didn't dare yell out that her masterpiece looked childish; I knew she'd see me as a chance to try it again and do it better. But I was bruised and battered, and she liked nice, clean, smooth canvases, no welts or scrapes. Maybe I'd be safe?_

I woke up drenched in sweat and shivering. I felt nauseous and cold, but I knew that it would pass. It was nothing more than residual fear and the leftover effects of my nightmare. In one way (and only one) it was good I'd had that nightmare; it meant I'd finally slept. It felt like weeks since I'd really slept; I'd known I'd fallen asleep, but it was never a deep sleep. Often I'd realize I was awake after a while, feeling much the way I had when I'd gone to bed, only more sore and even more tired, and especially frustrated because I was so tired and still unable to sleep. Maybe the nightmare had another positive side to it, though-at least I knew I was still terrified of Dahlia. No matter what Bobbi thought, and no matter what happened or how she acted, I would never trust Dahlia.

I stayed in bed, uncomfortable, but knowing I'd gotten as much sleep (if any) as I could for the time being. I was hungry, but I didn't want to eat. I still felt sick, and anyway, I knew what'd happen. I'd take a few bites of something and my throat would feel so tight, I was afraid I'd choke if I even swallowed water (though I didn't) or gag if I did anything else. I couldn't eat or sleep; much as it had been ten years earlier. Dahlia had somehow gotten my body to think all food was bad, by making me eat different things and each time, a pill that made me throw up a lot. After a while I couldn't eat. I didn't even want to remember what had been done to keep me awake at night, then and now.

I was still attending work, but even I could tell that my performance was suffering. For a while I'd thrown myself into it, making sure absolutely everything could be done to ensure sales and quality and interest in the store, and it had worked, raising sale numbers by forty-seven percent. Now, I hardly cared. I still went, and worked with everyone who wanted to have something sold or buy something or look into investing, but I didn't feel any enthusiasm for it. Why would I? Life was about so much more than that, and at any time, my life could end.

"I know the last while hasn't been easy on you," my boss said, when she and I were closing the store the night before my nightmare, "what with the incident with your boyfriend and the gun. I know it must've been traumatic. I know you said you were okay, but sometimes shock takes a while to kick in. You got the next day off, right? Listen, don't come in tomorrow. My cousin wants to try working with me for a day, and I'll get her to cover for you. Take some time off. Maybe see a professional," she added hesitantly, "not to say you're crazy, but just...maybe talking about it will help."

I doubted it, but I thanked her and told her I'd consider her suggestion. It was on the way out that things had worsened. Someone who had been watching a news broadcast in the MediaZone display window had turned and said, 'Look, it's Ashley Wyeth!' and there had been a stampede of people. I didn't remember running to my car, fumbling with the keys and lock, or anything. I just remembered that I had to get out of there and fade into the crowd before one of my pursuers, composed of curious people and reporters and maybe someone with more serious intentions, caught up to me.

I was surprised it'd taken people so long to recognize me. Everyone seemed to have recognized Claudia already, but as for really realizing that we were the top news story material, it seemed to have taken a while, which I was glad about. Too bad it hadn't taken longer...

I sat up quickly and bolted for the bathroom, the nausea that hadn't dissipated deciding it was time to blossom. I was sick as quietly as I could be before brushing my teeth and using mouthwash and heading to the kitchen for a cold drink of water.

"Are you okay?" Claudia asked, entering the kitchen hurriedly behind me, looking like she'd gotten up as soon as her eyes had opened. She looked tired, too, and not just from having woken up probably only a minute earlier. The press had realized who she was and she'd spent three days dodging microphones.

I nodded, but we both knew it was a lie. She poured herself a glass of chocolate milk and joined me at the table. I stared at the black windows and our reflections, sitting in chairs that didn't touch a floor, floating beyond the glass, invisible to everyone but me. Claudia's back was to the window.

_That's how I feel. Like I'm floating in nothingness, not really living, just existing. Like a shadow, a reflection. Too bad the world doesn't have its back turned to me. When I needed someone to realize my plight and help, nobody did, and now that I want to move on and cope with things, now everyone wants a piece of the story._

Claudia was oblivious to my thoughts, immaturely using a straw to blow a mountain of foggy bubbles in her glass.

"Do you ever still have nightmares?" I asked, over the bubbling, boiling-water noise she was making.

She looked up, her straw still in her mouth. It caught the edge of her glass and sent a spray of brown at me. I didn't even flinch.

"Sometimes. Did you have one?" She reached over with a sheet of paper towel and dropped it on the table between us, pushing it toward me to catch the stray spray drops.

"Yes."

She didn't ask about it, simply patting my shoulder in a sort of mothering way as she put her glass under a stream of water in the sink. The gesture was impersonal, and the urge to cry I knew I'd get if she hugged me, if I felt that I could break and someone would catch the pieces, thankfully passed.

"I was told not to come into work," I began, quickly checking the clock, "today."

"Why?"

"My boss thinks I'm still traumatized," I said, but I didn't bother adding that she thought it was because of the gun incident at work. She didn't even know about the mugging, and obviously she hadn't put together the pieces yet that I was the Ashley from ten years' past news coverage, though the broadcasts had finally started releasing my last name. Claudia's too, which explained our sudden, inadvertent fame. Suddenly people knew us, and it didn't make things any easier. Somehow, I knew, people ha figured out who Kerry was and had questioned her at school, but it'd taken them longer to figure out who we were. Even so, now that they knew, the questions were endless. Cashiers at the grocery store, people in lineups, people I passed on the street-everyone wanted to know something.

_It's so lame that everyone thinks I'm still upset about the mugging and ex-boyfriend-with-a-gun thing. Can't they see now that my real problems are so much bigger?_

Apparently they could, I realized, after a day of watching TV (comedies and cartoons, no news) and snacking on chips and popcorn, when Claudia came home from work, irritated and tense.

"My boss is acting strangely," she informed me. "I know he had to hire a new weekend-shift worker and deal with Rachel having taken my place for a while and deal with both of us being gone until you and I got home..." (pause for breath) "...but I think he's finally caught on to who I am. My disappearance and reappearance must have set him off thinking. And he's not taking it well."

"Why should he care? You've been there for a long time and have made more sales than anyone."

"He's probably afraid customers will notice me and fear coming into the store in case someone tries to bomb me again," Claudia said. "That would definitely hurt business, wouldn't it?"

"Only if there was still a store," I pointed out. "Here, have some Doritos." I tossed the bag to her. "You'll feel better."

She joined me on the couch, shaking her head. "Junk food won't help." She set the bag down between us, but after a moment, sighed and reached in. Cheesy, salty, crunchy chips are irresistable. And anyway, _not_eating wouldn't help, either.

We watched a few shows together before she was too restless to sit any longer. We took the rental car and left, no known destination in mind. (Our car, of course, had been blown to bits, and which we'd finally caved in and gotten shortly after the attempted mugging, knowing we'd likely be out and about at night again. It figured. Not even two tons of metal could save us.)

But it felt safer than walking.

"You know what I just don't understand?" Claudia asked, and without waiting for an answer, "why didn't they send her off to some island where she'd be behind three sets of metal doors and bars at all times and would have to swim twenty miles through cold, harsh ocean water to get to mainland?"

I knew she was referring to Dahlia. "I don't know."

"It'd make sense for them to do that with any adult who'd done what she did," Claudia continued, driving slowly as we passed through an intersection with a flashing red light, "but because she wasn't legally an adult, she didn't get the same punishment. Why don't the consequences fit the crimes? If you commit crimes only adults should be capable of thinking up, you ought to be sentenced the same as an adult. You'd think that because she was a teenager, they'd want to be sure she wouldn't think she'd gotten off easy and tried it again by giving her a more fitting punishment. I thought she'd be in jail for another fifty years."

I didn't have anything to say on the subject. My life was becoming nothingness, it seemed. It hadn't shrank, as Claudia had said hers was, but mine just sort of collapsed. I didn't feel much anymore. I didn't care much, either. And yet I couldn't do the things I had to do to survive.

"I wonder if Dahlia feels that her life shrank," I said, "or collapsed."

"Maybe at first, but now it must feel like her world is opening up," Claudia replied. "I hope the thought of being surrounded by people who know what she did is scaring the life out of her."

"Maybe we'll be lucky and the thought of being out of jail, having to work for money for food and clothes will be enough to scare her," I suggested, remembering how we'd done a class in middle school on budgeting for real-life situations and how I'd worried that I might fail at being able to provide for myself.

"Somehow I doubt anything scares her. I can't imagine how it must be for Bobbi, to go into that place and see her own face behind those bars. I mean, it's not really her own face, but it looks just the same."

"Didn't you say they looked nothing alike?"

"Technically, they do. But you can see and feel a difference between them, too."

We stopped at a convenience store and picked up some Slushies (which we hadn't gotten even though we'd both wanted one since the night we got mugged) and kept driving. It was so late at night that it was actually early in the morning. Aside from a red car stopped in the forested area of the park, we were the only vehicle out on the street.

I yawned after a while, looking at the lights reflected in shop windows as we passed, and the next thing I knew, Claudia was gently shaking my shoulder. I'd fallen asleep.

"We're home, Ash," she told me. ""Come on, wake up. This isn't a good place to sleep."

She was right. I'd slept in cars before, and I always ended up stiff and sore and cranky, usually because some kid had seen me and rounded up a bunch of others to stare at me. Besides that, this wasn't the best neighborhood, and I liked having multiple doors between me and whoever else was out there.

I still didn't feel like moving, though, so I told Claudia to go in without me. She just looked at me and said, "Ashley, if I leave you here right now, you'll just go back to sleep."

"Just ten minutes," I pleaded, "and here-give me a ring when it's time to get up."

I showed her that I had my phone with me, and she sighed. "Fine. But if you're not up in the apartment in fifteen, I'm coming back, and you'll be in trouble, little missy."

I leaned back on my reclined seat and laughed, closing my eyes as she got out and slammed her door. I opened my eyes slightly as I watched her walk inside, then started closing them again. But a sudden sound, a slight rustling, caught my attention. I sat up slightly and peered outside. Someone was approaching the building, dressed entirely in black.

I sensed something about the person, something that didn't exactly say he was here to give someone a pleasant surprise. I knew being reclined in my seat when Claudia had opened the door, the lights inside the car coming on, had saved me. The masked person was eying the car as he passed. I stayed still.

When he was inside, I grabbed my phone and dialed my land line quickly. I misdialed, though, and had to try it again. Claudia had to have been at the apartment by then, and I hoped with my fingers crossed that the phone was plugged in.

After four rings, during which I'd imagined her with a gun to her head, her hands in the air, while the warning I wanted to give her went unanswered in the background, Claudia answered.

"Claud! Get outside! Someone entered the building behind you, dressed in shadow camouflage and a mask!"

"Did he see you?"

"No, when the lights came on I was reclined, but he-or she-was definitely looking at the car. I don't think they know I'm here, but they definitely know you're there. Get onto the fire escape!"

I could already see her at the window, opening it, the phone cradled between her ear and her shoulder. I peered cautiously over the dashboard at the sleek black car parked in the bushes across the street and hoped none of the man's accomplices, if he had any, could see her. The car appeared empty, though I knew perfectly well how tinted windows worked.

_Maybe there are cars like this all over the place,_ I thought, remembering the car I'd seen stopped in the park, _and we're being watched. But are they reporters or worse than that?_

It didn't matter. Both cars had been extremely shiny, probably new, and the sleek polish had reflected just enough of the moonlight to make me aware of their presence. Thank goodness for stupid criminals who went for flashy cars instead of simple functionality and practicality.

With my heart pounding, the sound inaudible because Claudia's breathing through the phone had increased in volume, I watched as she squeezed through the tiny window and onto the flimsy metal contraption. When no gunshots followed her, breaking the glass or sending her off-balance, I allowed myself a tiny breath of hope.

"She's not here," a voice said, startling me back to the action lower to the ground as the masked man burst outside, talking into his collar. "No, I don't know. I saw her go in and followed her but she was out of sight right away. Maybe the apartment number was wrong."

I realized then that I was leaning forward to watch Claudia, frozen (in fear, or was it simply knowing that she'd be less visible if she stayed still?) on the fire escape. I was leaning so far forward, in fact, that I could see by my reflection on the windsheild that my face was as visible in the apartment lights as a chocolate bar is at a camp for overweight children.

"No sign of her, either," the man said, hurring across the street, not even looking at me. But then he turned, looking back at the building. The light in our living room illuminated the white stripes on Claudia's stretchy black aerobics tank top, but luckily, it just looked a little from here like the bars of the fire escape were lit up. I didn't move, but I could still see the man looking. I knew it would only be a matter of time before his eyes lowered and they would see the human sillhouette in a car he'd seen as empty not long before.

When they did, he jerked back as though he'd seen a ghost. He said something quickly in what sounded like a foreign language into his shirt and took a few steps back, reaching into his holster in a single, lightning-fast, fluid movement. With the gun aimed at me, the finger moving as if on slow-motion towards the trigger, I strained as hard as I could to fight against the seat belt I'd lazily left buckled on and pushed back, fighting only my supporting arms just as the passenger side window shattered.

I watched through vision blurred from having squeezed my eyes shut as Claudia clamped her hands over her mouth, using her elbows to support herself, to keep from screaming. Bullets continued to bombard the car, and I heard the sounds of ricochet as metal hit metal. I wasn't aware of pain, but I continued to lie there, wondering if I'd been hit, without moving. I hoped I looked dead in case someone peered in. When I heard the sound of tires screeching away, I dared to open an eye.

I used my hands to feel for blood, but everywhere I touched, my hands came up clean. I sat up slowly, in shock, and looked over myself. Shards of glass like hard, frosted ice crystals littered the entire cab, and the metal of the car's frame was bent inward in pointy triangles, sort of like when someone's bouncing on a trampoline and you look underneath and watch as the black material tornadoes toward the ground. The bullets hadn't pierced the body, but the glass was definitely going to need replacing.

_Maybe someone at the car rental place recognized us and knew we'd need protecting,_ I thought, which was followed by, _I bet we'll never get our deposit back._

* * *

**Author's Note: The masked guy didn't see Claudia because he wasn't looking for her; he didn't know what to look for. Ashley did, which is why she saw Claudia's reaction to the barrage of gunfire. And yes, while under attack and reclined in a car Ashley could focus on a single person nine floors up, because it adds to the chapter. :D So, was Ashley's dream a memory or just a nightmare, or did Ashley unknowingly remember Mallory's presence? I haven't written it in yet, but Claudia didn't confirm to Ashley that Mal worked with Dahlia, just so you know...**

**... Is anyone reading this? :)**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Had I not been certain Ashley was dead, those minutes I waited to be sure the shooters weren't coming back would have been agonizing. In Stoneybrook, any release of rapid gunfire would have resulted in a concerned crowd, everyone wanting to know what was going on and help out. But here in a big city, it was different. People stayed away from such scenes; the police were liable to stick a 'guilty' label on someone as fast as they could just to avoid an extensive search for the actual suspect and more paperwork, time, and money. Someone must have called the police, though, because a siren started wailing in the distance.

I climbed swifly down the fire escape and headed slowly towards our rental car. To my shock and horror, I could see movement inside. If she wasn't dead, she was likely going to be, suffering and dying slowly, alone. I sped up and reached her in time to see her reach for the door handle.

"I'm okay," she said, before I had even caught sight of her fully. "Not a single scratch."

I examined the door carefully, when Ashley stood outside, still looking herself over, amazed, and picking glass out of her clothes and hair. The bullets had hit hard, but only two had made it through the metal. Ashley examined them closely, the inside lights of the car still working, and said, "I hadn't seen that in the dark. I guess the car really saved me."

The squad cars pulled up, sirens silenced, and looked at us. It was clear what we were looking at; the metal outside was so bent that the streetlights reflected in the shine were distorted. As they approached, the man in the lead froze and said, "Claudia Kishi? Ashley Wyeth?"

"Yes," I said.

He was silent, looking at us and then at the car. "Is this yours?"

"It belongs to a rental place on fifth street," I replied, "and it was a temporary replacement for the other car, which was bombed last week."

The man nodded. He asked to see paperwork and proof of identity, and then asked what happened. We told him what we knew, everything Ashley had seen of the man and everything I'd seen from the fire escape (which hadn't been very much, since if I moved it would creak and squeal and I'd be seen, doubling the chance that we'd both die) and he took us with him to the station while the other officers examined the car and sectioned off the area for investigation.

We were questioned again there, asked the same questions by different officers. I wasn't sure, but I thought maybe they did that in case one of us was lying and we got a detail wrong. They separated us for some time, then had us together again.

I was sure getting tired of answering questions and being bombed. Ashley, who had slept less than I had altogether and who had been sleepy and quiet just before the attack, looked ready to fall asleep in her chair. At one point she yawned and dropped her head onto the table.

We were led into a cell with a bunk bed and told to get some rest, that for the time being this was the safest place for us. Ashley fell asleep as soon as she was on the bed, and I climbed up to the top and stretched out. I don't remember falling asleep, but I do remember waking up slowly, in an unfamiliar place, with light streaming through a barred window on the wall above me. My first thought, seeing those bars and not recognizing anything, was _Oh, crap. I'm caged up again, aren't I?_

I sat up and almost passed out, seeing more bars across the entrance to the room. But the door was open, and I jumped down as fast as I could, eager to get to the other side of the door, almost wondering if this was a hallucination and the open door was a mirage and I'd slam into it, snapping out of it and into a much harsher reality. But I didn't; I got to the door and walked into the hallway, free as I could be. I turned, but Ashley wasn't in the bottom bed, or in the cell.

_Maybe she woke up before I did and freaked out, too,_I thought, poking at the bars and remembering the cages, knowing she'd likely react even harder than I had to the thought of being caged again.

"Breakfast?" a female officer asked, handing me a plate with a giant doughnut and a cup of hot coffee. "There's one for Ashley, too."

"Where is she?" I asked, figuring she'd been taken for questioning again, or maybe had to find a bathroom.

"Still asleep, last I saw," the officer replied, but went to check, anyway. I ate my doughnut, but was aware of the definite alarm raised among the officers there. Since we weren't in custody, we were free to go-but nobody had seen Ashley leave, and it walkn't like Ashley to walk off without me; she was too afraid of the world now, and she and I had come in a police car. She'd had to have walked, or hailed a cab, but I knew she'd left her wallet at home the night before and didn't have money with her.

An officer drove me home. I kept my eyes open for Ashley, walking, along the way but didn't see her. The police tape still cirled our rental car, and officers had been posted throughout the building to keep Ashley and I (and our neighbors) safer, but I didn't see Ashley-and none of the officers on duty had seen her, either.

Inside, I closed the window I'd left open to the fire escape and found a message on the answering machine. _"This is a message for Claudia Kishi from the ABC-that's Automotive and Bus Center, regarding your rental car. Please call back at..."_

I wandered around for a while, remembered that Ashley had brought her phone with her the night before, and tried calling it. No answer. But that was because, somehow, her phone was on the kitchen table. It rang and scared me. But Ashley wasn't there; although she must have been. I sighed, knowing that unless I ran around the city on foot looking, I wouldn't find her until she wanted to be found, which in simple terms boiled down to 'came home.' Ashley's wallet was gone, though, so hopefully she'd had money on her, wherever she was.

I turned on the TV and opened a bag of Cheezies. I found a news channel and sat back, hoping to hear stories of normal crimes; drug deals busted, prostitution rings uncovered, grow-ops found.

_"In local new we go now to the penitentiary where Dahlia Battista was being held up until this morning, when a masked woman burst into the cafeteria through a guarded door and fought with the prisoner, who had been eating breakfast. It appears as though the mysterious stranger was working alone to release Dahlia ffrom the prison. Shockingly, the guards were not able to stop the woman, and although Dahlia herself appears to have struggled and yelled 'I don't want to leave,' the woman led her out and the two have since disappeared. Police are working around the clock as we speak to find both Dahlia and her rescuer, who as we can see from this security footage, may also be Dahlia's captor as the prisoner was freed from the prison but shackled into handcuffs."_

I watched the grainy gray footage in shock, but couldn't concentrate. Ashley was out on her own, and someone had just freed Dahlia! Not only that, could that "rescuer" have been a follower of Dahlia's created religion, if she'd done anything Bobbi had talked about, and thought Dahlia didn't deserve to be jailed for her "heroics"?

No. It was much more likely that Ashley's disappearance had something to do with Dahlia's disappearance. But Ashley would never free Dahlia, and Dahlia would definitely want to recapture Ashley, so it made sense. When had Dahlia been freed? If it had been yesterday, she could have orchestrated the attack on our car herself, though even if it had been an hour earlier, she could have done it through her followers-if she had any, if she had a religion or something-or her minions. She likely still had some. In any case, it sounded like everyone on the news was talking about how Dahlia must have planned her escape and struggled just to make it more convincing.

Could it have had anything to do with the news conference Ashley and I had finally agreed to, figuring it would help stem the tide of questions from everyone?

I spent the whole day quietly watching the news, waiting for Ashley to come home or Dahlia and her 'captor' to be caught. I made some cheesy spaghetti and garlic bread for lunch, but went right back to the couch.

Around eight, as I was dozing off and my glass of milk threatened to spill in my lap, the phone rang. I flinched but reached for it anyway, hoping it was Ashley.

"Hello, is this Ms. Claudia Kishi?"

"Maybe," I replied, since the caller hadn't introduced herself. She sounded pleasant. I didn't trust based on that anymore. "Who's this?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. This is Jessie Tuelle, chief of polive for the Chicago area. I believe we have something you may want to see."

It was curiousity that prevented me from asking what it was. I simply wrote down the address and called a cab.

. . . .

"It appears as though she was tortured before she died," Jessie Tuelle told me, as we stood over a white sheet covering a body, which I'd just identified. Not that everyone in the world wouldn't have recongized the face. It was odd, because as I looked at the corpse, it was so easy to imagine that it was someone else.

"She got a taste of her own medicine," I said, without feeling. It didn't matter. I wouldn't be called a killer. Nor would Ashley, though the note she'd left indicated both homicide and suicide. We were standing on the sandy beach along Lake Michigans' north side, over two corpses. One had blonde hair and blue eyes and had lived with me. The other had also been blonde but I'd never really been able to look at her eyes.

It was true, though. The reports indicated all kinds of tortures. Dahlia had suffered.

I looked down at the envelope in my hand, with my name on it. The police had opened it as part of their investigation, but I still hadn't seen the contents. It was dark out, but we were standing in a brightly-lit area, with investigators combing the area and flashing lights from squad cars all around. Reporters hurled questions and accusations from beyond a barricade.

Ashley was a hero, of sorts. She'd freed Dahlia, yes, and had it gone wrong she'd have let loose a killer. But she'd risked herself to bring about some tiny bit of justice.

_Claudia,  
Please don't hate me. I realize that I may have just made what some will call "the biggest risk" and others a "heroic sacrifice" and to most, "a stupid revenge shot," but I had a reason. It's better for two to die than for another hundred if Dahlia ends up as bad as she once was, and at the risk of sounding stupid considering that you're likely reading this over my dead body, it wasn't a chance I was willing to take. Dahlia couldn't have been allowed to walk the streets and she sure shouldn't ever have been allowed the chance to do what she did again. I know it was a big risk and I'm so sorry for scaring you and leaving you; I know by now you must have seen the News and heard that Dahlia had been freed and that I was out there somewhere, but nobody knew where and I couldn't be contacted. I'm sorry for all of that, and all I can do now is hope that Dahlia's death brings you some freedom from the pain and the press and the constant drama and attacks. I hope those attacks will stop now. I just had to take Dahlia out with me, and I promise, my suicide is not your fault in any way. If I'd lived I'd have been locked up forever, behind bars. I wouldn't have cared much if I'd lost my freedom, I lost it long ago. What would have bothered me was seeing those bars every day. I know I'm dead now, and I don't want you to be upset. I don't think I was really alive anymore, anyway. I certainly haven't really being living for the past ten years. I think maybe I died ten years ago in those cages. I know you didn't, Claudia; I know you're still alive. You're too strong and too full of life to ever truly die. I know in movies and books people always end up able to cope no matter what happens, but this isn't just some story. This is real. And as much as I'd like to give my story a happy ending, the only way I could come close was to make sure yours would have a happy ending, which will hopefully not be for another seventy or eighty years.  
I know it will be easy for you to see Bobbi lying in a pool of blood when you identify Dahlia here; but be assured, Bobbi is fine and will be, hopefully forever. Her sister is no longer a threat to anyone, unless you're afraid of ghosts. But even if ghosts exist, know that for every Dahlia ghost out there, there'll be an Ashley by your side, taking them on so you can just move on.  
Okay, I've got to wrap this up. Dahlia's dying body is sitting beside me, what's left of her mind screaming incoherently. I hope you don't take as much pleasure as I am in knowing she suffered. I think maybe I'm insane after all. I hope you simply take comfort in knowing she's gone. I hope you can move on and have a happy life, no longer wasting time wondering when she'll come for you and living in fear, which I've come to realize is no way to live. Best wishes from your friend, Ashley._

. . . .

Ashley's sacrifice, as the newscasters called it, prompted a huge wave of support. People thought she was a hero, seeming to have sacrificed her entire life (not just her life itself, but years of it spent supposedly recovering) to bring down her tormentor and keep her from hurting anyone else ever again.

The end of the fear and wondering brought the Battista family closer together. Kerry and the twins were back to a typical older-and-younger sisters relationship, the fact that they were cousins forgotten as the twins envied her mature lifestyle and the cool things she was allowed to do, and she was back to baby-sitting them and allowing them to play with her makeup. Michael and Bobbi had more romantic nights together, and then, family nights, with their kids. Michael and Kerry got along better, but everyone got along better than before, like a real family. Unconsciously, the stresses Bobbi felt over her sister's messy lifestyle that she'd been facing alone, and as a family, they were all doing better.

My mother didn't say a single thing to me over the death of Dahlia. But my father and sister came to celebrate with me and help me arrange a funeral for Ashley and to make sure I was okay. The attacks had stopped altogether, proving (to me) that Dahlia really had been behind them. My boss stopped acting strangely, instead treating me like a hero. I got a new roommate after a while, too.

And above all that, I really did feel better. Sometimes I found myself relaxing, then I'd think of Ashley and feel sad, enough to cry, but even so, I still felt relieved. It felt like I weighed a lot less, and it felt like my stomach had finally unclenched and my lungs filled with air and my face was always relaxed, not tense. I hadn't even realized how tense I'd been, for my whole body to suddenly relax so much.

Best of all, it just felt like the chaos was over, like I could fall into a plain old boring routine of monotony, getting up to go to work and coming home tired and cranky and sore and complaining about the mess my roommate left, even though I'd complained about Ashley's neatness for the longest time and even about living with her, though now I missed her a lot. I moved her things into my room, keeping them separate from my new roommate's things.

Mallory Pike had quit her job as a reporter, realizing how unethical it could be. Dahlia's death had brought relief to Mallory, who had been living in fear as well and had become a reporter in part to try and bring Dahlia down herself. As my new roommate, she was adjusting well to having someone to talk to who'd been in the same situation she had been in, though I'd been caged and she'd just been blackmailed for the sake of her six-year-old sister. Mallory, twelve at the time, had hardly been old enough to need to experience what she had. Neither had I, two years older, but we both agreed nobody should have experienced any of it. Jessi had taken over paying for the suite she and Mal had shared, suddenly independent and enjoying her isolation. (Mallory figured Jessi was shocked and upset and embarrassed that her best friend had gone through what she had.) I was sure Jessi was mostly just upset her best friend had kept such a secret from her, meanwhile moving to Chicago to get close to me without actually telling her roommate the real reason why. In any case, Mallory wasn't so bad, after all.

I'd found Ashley's journal and read it, feeling guilty and dirty but as though I had to. Ashley never just left her stuff lying around, and when her stuff was in my room, it was a big tempation to find out why she'd left it open on her bed. I'd come across the last entry, the record of her dream, and found mention of what could have been Mallory in a memory of a previous decade's drama. A decade of drama and Ashley had never coped, never recovered. She had still awoken from nightmares so intense she was sick to her stomach ten years later.

I hoped she was sleeping better now.

* * *

**Author's Note: Yes, the end of this story is coming. There'll be at least one more chapter, not sure of anything past that. I know I might have seemed to lead on about Dahlia's release being the release of terror, but maybe the real terror came from the victims, as in, not that Ashley truly did something horrific, but that living in fear that wouldn't go away as long as their torturer was alive was all that it was? I've sort of been interested in the coping process for a while. In any case, I hope this isn't disappointing to begin the end of the story 'so soon,' I'm not sure how many more attacks I could have written in, though; over-writing those things makes a story unrealistic. Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed, and to my anonymous reviewers (because I reply to signed ones) thank you so much for reading and reviewing!**

**I realize uploading nine chapters (so far) in about a week and a half after a dormant year is a lot, so although they came fast, I'm not sure they built up to a satisfying conclusion. As always, feedback is appreciated!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20 - Epilogue**

As a kid I thought the luxuries of life were money, jewels, fancy dresses, and a big house.

As a teen, I thought the luxuries were a fancy car, cool friends, a hot boyfriend, and money.

As an adult, I thought luxuries were safety and family and friends and the ability to relax.

If my adult self was thinking correctly, I was living in luxury. I still had a bit of trouble remembering things, but my parents officially divorced, and my father and sister spent more time than ever with me. My friends, those who were left, were in the mess of life. Some were nearby, some weren't; some continued to suffer and make bad choices, others didn't. But we kept in touch, and I started feeling like even though we'd each gone through different things to make us who we now were, we were getting close again. The distance in miles between two people was meaningless. Safety was one of the biggest and newest aspects to my adult life. It had been a month and there were no bombings, blasts, beatings, shootings, or explosions, though I had sort of 'exploded' at the reporters who continued to hound me. But between a more relaxed work life and home life, I could really relax; stretch out with an icy glass of Coke and some Twinkies in the chairs by the Battista backyard pool with Bobbi and her happier family. (Bobbi had been shocked by the more recent events, but had recovered, seeming to see it as having happened for the best.)

For the first time in a long time, I was free. Nobody was after me, and nobody was going to come after me. The past was the past, and I was long since ready to leave it there. Maybe I hadn't fully healed yet, or coped with my losses, but I knew I could because my adult life, no longer overshadowed by the events of my youth and blurring together with it as the drama just continued, stretching from the past to intertwine with my future, could finally, really begin.

Ashley had been right. You can't live in fear, wondering about what will happen. You can only do your best and deal with every challenge you face as best you can. You may not always win, as I found out, but as long as you do what's right, you never truly lose, either.

So I'll move on. I wake up these days and take a big, deep breath and feel the cool air as it hits me when I toss off my nice, warm blankets. I want to plunge into the cool water and climb the mountains and breathe in the life that's all around me, and experience everything most people can simply because their thoughts aren't constantly impeded by memories of pain and suffering and death. I want to feel the sun's heat and the burn in my muscles as I run and the wind in my hair all the time, as I stand on top of a world that once held me down that now I feel I can conquer.

Maybe Kristy's thoughts of heroism rubbed off and remained with me all these years. Maybe I always did want to be a bit of a hero.

But does being a hero mean conquering all, on your own?

No. Sometimes people need help. Sometimes being a hero means taking risks and making sacrifices. Being a hero often comes with a steep price that nobody will mention because for the sake of simple, innocent childhood fantasies that we cling to as we face a toughening world each day, we need heroes and people to take risks for us. And as long as there are those willing to do what has to be done for the good of the majority, humanity will always be a race of mixed masses; the good and the bad and the complicated and the simple.

I once heard someone say that fairy tales don't exist to teach children of monsters and evil and unstoppable villains; they exist to teach us that those monsters and villains can be stopped.

I used to think my life was a bit like living in a movie.

Now I know, all along, I've lived in a fairy tale.


End file.
